


join them the wretched and joyful

by groundedsaucer (coasterchild)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bondage, Cuckolding, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Some light Phillipe de Chagny slander, Threesome - F/M/M, but no one gets sloshed, but very loving consensual cuckolding, dom/sub dynamics, domestic throuple fluff, eventual pregnancy, oh and there is mention of some light drinking at the beginning, the trials and tribulations of pregnancy and childbirth in the 1800s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coasterchild/pseuds/groundedsaucer
Summary: He and Raoul had reached an equilibrium, of course, somewhat by necessity. What else can two men do when they love the same woman and she wishes to continue loving both of them?
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 81
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is more or less a follow-up to my threesome fic "your friends are a fate that befell me" (found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26097148 ). I wouldn't say it's STRICTLY necessary you read it first*, so long as you're fine with accepting the premise of "Erik, Christine, and Raoul are in an established throuple situation, and Raoul is really into getting tied up." That's the tl;dr, anyway. 
> 
> This fic, as is usual for me, is based almost entirely on ALW POTO, specifically the 25th Anniversary production, but in this case I did take a few elements from the book, occasionally altering them as necessary. 
> 
> *not strictly necessary, but if you're looking for E/C/R porn? You might as well, honestly. It's much shorter and gives you way more, uh, bang for your buck.

A commotion in the next room might have alerted Erik that they had returned, but it was the scent of cigars and fine perfumes that clung to Christine’s skirts and lingered in Raoul’s hair that first struck him when the door to his well-appointed room was opened. 

He turned from his desk to greet them. Erik had been ruminating on the same three measures of his latest work for the last hour, and at this point they were a welcome distraction. “I know we harbor so few secrets between us,” he said, “but have we abandoned niceties altogether? Is knocking passé now? You know I have trouble keeping up with changes in etiquette.”

A giggle rose in Christine’s throat, and she crossed the room to take his hand, pressing an apologetic kiss to his knuckles. She had been drinking, they both had. Not to excess, just enough champagne to give her cheeks a rosy bloom and Raoul’s eyes a sly quality, like a man who hoped he looked merely thoughtful as he tried to affect an impersonation of perfect sobriety. Erik did not imbibe, generally. He found that more than a glass of wine with a meal made him melancholy, or worse, but Christine and Raoul would occasionally return from some soiree or another lightheaded and gay from a few drinks, and he didn't entirely mind.

“Oh, forgive us,” Christine said, and he would have, immediately, if there had actually been anything to forgive. “We only wanted to tell you how well your piece had been received.” 

This meant she had found an excuse to sing at whatever social gathering had stolen them away this evening. Such an excuse was generally easy to come by in a group of otherwise bored aristocrats who realized they had a soprano of some note in their midst. She was routinely cajoled into performing a song or two, often met with effusive praise, and if they whispered about the presumed scandal of Raoul marrying below his station, they kept their voices out of her hearing. The first few times it had been unnerving for Christine, Erik knew, singing in front of those judgemental faces without so much as a stage or an orchestra pit between them. If she was lucky there would be a man on piano, or on a few occasions a quartet, but otherwise she felt alone, as if she were auditioning for an unfamiliar part without preparation.

It had gotten easier, eventually, and now it was something of a thrill for her. It was a thrill for Erik, too, knowing that she, when she could get away with it, sang his music for an audience, albeit one much smaller than it had been during their days in Paris.

Raoul, for his part, liked to show off his wife, and with good reason. She was beautiful and charming and in possession of a great talent, and he had the privilege of bearing the arm she clung to as they made their rounds through the party. He was smiling sweetly at her now, still in enough control of his faculties to appreciate her heightened mood, her bubbly demeanor. 

Erik squeezed her hand. “I’m pleased to hear it, although I can hardly say I’m surprised. I’m sure you could have sung them a nursery rhyme and they would have been utterly entranced by that lovely instrument of yours.”

She smiled, more color rising in her cheeks. Christine didn’t blush as easily as she once did, but she was in the sort of humor that lent itself to such a girlish display. “Now it’s not at all fair trying to appeal to my vanity when I’m busy appealing to yours!”

“It’s hardly vanity to acknowledge the truth. Your voice is exquisite, and I won’t be compelled to pretend it isn’t.”

Raoul approached them, placing a hand at the small of Christine’s back and chiming in. “She’s not exaggerating, vanity or not,” he said. “Everyone was quite impressed by the aria in particular. Half the men there were trying to pry the name of this ‘anonymous composer’ that I’ve been patronizing out of me.” He wrapped his arms around Christine’s waist now, resting his chin on her shoulder, both of them looking down at him affectionately. It was still such a strange thing, to have even one person gaze upon him in such a way--no mask, no pretense, only bare contentment--but to have two was a gift Erik thought he might never grow accustomed to. “We may need to come up with a name for this great undiscovered talent soon, if only to keep the jackals off my heels.”

He said it lightly, but it was true. This arrangement was a poorly constructed facade, and if they wanted any chance of keeping their little life as unperturbed as it was--and Erik very much wanted that--they would need to build structure into the lie. A name, first, under which Erik might release his work publicly. Forged documents might become necessary, and here in Marseille he was at a disadvantage on that front. In Paris he might've found some seedier brokers of such wares, when he had Madame Giry to act as his hand in the harsh light of day. Here he was still getting his bearings, and he rarely left the de Chagny townhouse, finding seclusion still suited him as well as it suited the fabrication that he was merely a distant relative of the Daaé line suffering from some chronic and untreatable illness, charitably taken in by the Viscount as a favor to his kind-hearted wife. 

Erik felt, at times, that this was not so far from the truth.

He and Raoul had reached an equilibrium, of course, somewhat by necessity--what else can two men do when they love the same woman and she wishes to continue loving both of them?--but also by something more unintentional than that. Once the perceived threat of his competition for Christine's affections, of him robbing Erik of the nearest thing to companionship that he had up to that point imagined, was gone, Erik grudgingly found he might recognize admirable qualities in the brave young Viscount.

Above all, he did love Christine, and had done since they were both young. When he looked at Raoul, Erik no longer saw the impertinent gentlemen who only wanted Christine for her fame and beauty, for the attention he might win with her on his arm. Quite the opposite, he was proud to walk with her even when the society gossip in Paris had reached a fever pitch, casting aspersions on her breeding and purity. Erik was plagued by some guilt for the latter point, knowing that the tantalizing story of the Beautiful Soprano Taken by the Opera Ghost had done nothing to help her already precarious reputation. He was plagued by guilt for many things.

Fault and blame and debts aside, Raoul had stuck by Christine, and so Erik had stuck by both of them, going so far as to move with them when they left Paris shortly after the wedding, fleeing the cruel rumors that swirled like a clinging miasma. He did not entirely know how he'd managed them throwing in their lot with _him_ , but he hoped--prayed--that he would not live to see them regret it. Christine’s affection for him still felt like a miracle, and he hated to interrogate it too deeply, worried that the magic of it would fall away before his searching eyes and she would come to her senses. Raoul was more of a puzzle. Erik had learned to appreciate him, through Christine’s eyes at least, and in some ways even like him, through his own, but he did not know the Viscount’s feelings for him--no.

That was not entirely true. He knew some of Raoul’s feelings very intimately. Erik knew some of his desires specifically, indulging them to great effect, and there was a look on Raoul’s face afterward, that constant masculine furrow of his brow softened until he looked almost cherubic in his satiation. So perhaps Erik did provide something, but it was fleeting, carnal, and troublesome to quantify. An unsteady foundation. 

“I suppose a name would be wise,” Erik said, glancing back to his music. “I’m making progress on the full opera, and it would be nice to eventually see it performed by a company larger than Christine and myself.”

That much was true, but at the same time he had grown so accustomed to the sound of their voices together that the thought of other performers singing it, no matter how talented in their own right, was jarring to him. 

"A name at least," said Christine. "One of the ladies tonight asked me if I had ever met this composer, and I told her yes--I hope that's all right." She looked to Erik, then Raoul, who nodded reassuringly. She hadn't contradicted his version of the story. 

"Oh?" said Erik, making no attempt to hide his curiosity.

"I told her he was perhaps the most entrancing man I'd ever met. She told me," a chuckle escaped her throat, "that I'd better not let my husband hear me say such things." 

Raoul swept the hair back from her shoulder and placed a kiss near the nape of her neck, and her eyes fluttered briefly closed.

"And what did you say to that?"

"I said that my husband knows my heart as well as his own, and he wouldn't be bothered by such a confession in the least."

"A clever way to tell the truth," said Erik. 

"I hate to lie when I can help it." She said this lightly, like Raoul earlier, but he knew it was true. Deception was perhaps the necessity of their arrangement that she found most distasteful, and Erik loathed that it was his presence which made it necessary.

Even now, after months to grow used to it, Erik felt some part of himself fall away when Christine kissed him. It was a shell on a creature that had grown too tight, and she pried it loose with her mouth on his. He kissed her back, of course, trying as he always did to repay her sweetness with his own, knowing the trade would never be a fair one. _This isn’t a transaction_ , she had said, some time ago. Christine gave her affection freely, and hoped that he might do the same, but Erik still knew in some bone-deep part of himself that loving him was no easy task. He had been denied it for so long, because the burden was too great to shoulder unless one must. 

Instead of dwelling, Erik stood, only breaking the kiss long enough for Christine to straighten out as he cupped the sides of her face. She tipped her chin up to meet him this time, Raoul still behind her and pressing his lips to the back of her neck. Her hands roamed Erik’s body, smoothing over his waistcoat, working at the buttons. 

She looked over her shoulder, catching Raoul’s eye. “Darling, would you help me out of my dress?”

The evening passed blissfully from that point. Christine stepped out of her gown, and Erik slid Raoul's tie from his collar, using a small, neat knot to bind his wrists behind his back. Grasping a fistful of tousled hair, Erik shoved the Viscount onto the nearby bed, leaving him to squirm ineffectually as he and Christine devoured one another. Erik made her cry out under his tongue as Raoul whimpered, and when he took Christine from behind, she took pity on the painfully aroused Viscount, enveloping him with her sweet mouth until he too cried out.

Erik drifted off in a tangle of limbs, and for the time being his doubts rested as soundly as he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> date night

“The intonation is perfect,” Erik said, leaning so that he could see the music Christine held as she sang. “But after this point,”--he drew his finger over a particular passage--“the orchestra will drop off from its crescendo abruptly, and I think your--the soprano’s voice should be quite delicate here, only rising as the strings come in, still _leggiero_ , almost imperceptible.”

Christine nodded, and plucked the quill from his hand, making a quick note for herself on the page. 

It shocked Erik, occasionally, how much he enjoyed composing now. Before it had been something he was compelled to do, a necessary mechanism by which he could purge what built up inside him. He didn’t dislike it, of course. The process had always been diverting, all-consuming, a welcome respite from his dismal surroundings.

But now, with Christine to sing the notes he’d only heard in his head, her interpretations molding his work in directions he hadn’t expected, he found the process thrilling in its own right. Like before he had been carving his music in stone without complaint, and she had provided him with ink and paper. 

The two of them sang through the more-or-less finished pieces of the opera, Erik humming or playing the piano quickly through the parts that suited neither of their voices. Christine experimented with him, testing--almost playing with the notes as written, and he found her instincts, once expressed without inhibition, were incredibly reliable. She sang the final song of the lead soprano, the heroine of the piece, and it sounded lovely, but her eyebrows knit together as she studied the music.

“Do you not like it?” Erik tried to make this sound light, tried not to betray the defensiveness that wanted very much to bar her from the room so that he could gather the sheets of paper and pore over them until he could excise the problem.

“The music is beautiful,” she said, and she scanned the piece, searching for something and apparently not finding it. “It’s haunting. But I don’t understand why she leaves.”

“Her life is wretched squalor. Without this bargain she is on the verge of starvation, or worse.”

“But she is happy with him. When they are together, the wretchedness is nothing. In act one--” she shuffled through the paper, pulling out the sheet. “The love they share--it’s so resonant in the music. How could she make a bargain that would part them? He makes her feel alive.”

“It is a tragedy, my dear.”

“But must it be?”

He wanted to dismiss this as sentimentality, but she did not seem overcome with emotion. Christine’s eyes were only searching, his own face now, rather than the music, and Erik felt pinned under her gaze. 

"I am not s--" Erik was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was early for one of the serving staff to be bringing a meal, and so it must be--

"Hope I'm not interrupting," called Raoul, opening the door and striding in. He held an envelope in his right hand and pressed a kiss to Christine's cheek as he reached them. 

"Not at all," said Christine, setting her music on the piano bench. "Have you come to listen?"

He did, sometimes, when other responsibilities did not call him away. Raoul was still no great aficionado, but he appreciated beautiful music, especially when sung by his beautiful wife, so he was not the worst audience one might ask for.

"Alas, no," he replied. "I must attend to some business, and I fear it will keep me out through the evening." He held the envelope out to Christine, and she took it, curiously. "I had hoped this would be a surprise for you, darling, but perhaps it can be one for both of you instead."

Christine opened the envelope, and her eyes lit up as she peered inside.

"Oh, you sweet man." She wrapped her arms around Raoul, squeezing him with unfettered delight. She turned to face Erik, holding the contents of the envelope out to him. "Tell me you'll go, Erik."

He inspected the flimsy card, and found that it was a reservation for a box at the Opéra de Marseille, that very night.

He stepped back, smoothing his waistcoat. "Nothing would make me happier, my dear, but," he said, and at this her smile wavered, "I’m not sure it’s wise."

Erik had hardly been out in public at all these last months, and certainly hadn’t been seen with either Christine or the Viscount de Chagny since their fateful night below the Opera Populaire. He feared discovery, for himself, of course--one of the few things he truly dreaded in this life was being again locked behind bars, his only comfort the executioners block that would be sure to shortly follow--but more so for Christine, and even to some extent Raoul. What would become of them if it was learned they had harbored him from justice? The thought of it was heavy and terrible in his gut.

“We could arrive late,” Christine said, taking Erik’s hand now, reassuring. “Once the larger crowd has thinned out and found their seats. We’ll slip in hardly noticed, I’m sure. Once we’re there the box it will be quite private.”

The uneasiness didn’t go away, but with Christine looking at him with such bare hope--hope that he would spend an evening with her, of all things--Erik found it easy enough to suppress. 

\---

When they stepped from the carriage, the crowd was, as Christine had predicted, largely dispersed, but Erik found even this reasonable gathering--a few gentlemen and ladies milling about, socializing before finding their seats--made his pulse quicken. The relative safety of solitude was striped away, and each pair of eyes held the potential of threat. Of ruin.

Erik wore his formal clothes, with a wide-brimmed hat which he kept tipped down, in hopes no one would study too closely the face it shadowed. He wore a simple mask, painted to match his skin tone precisely, including even the slightest blush of a cheek and one arched eyebrow. He thought it a ghastly impersonation of life when studied too closely, but at a safe distance, or darting glance, it was convincing enough. 

Christine, of course, was breathtaking. He’d seen her in her fine Vicomtesse evening clothes, often before she and Raoul left to make their society appearances, or when they came stumbling back on tired feet, hardly able to undress before falling into bed. But seeing her now was another matter, in the splendor of the opera house--not quite so fine as the Populaire, but what was?--and still putting it all to shame with her radiance. Her dress was a delicate cream color, only discernible from her lovely skin by its lack of a pink blush. The bodice was structured satin, with the skirts and bust-line built up of a flowing, transparent fabric that gave her whole appearance a dreamlike quality. Intricately crafted silk flowers accented the line of her leg to her hip, with another small bouquet peeking out at one shoulder, drawing the eye up her handsome neck. 

She showed the attendant the box reservation, and he waved them along. She turned back to Erik, her face framed by short chestnut curls and an intricate up-do that only held some of her hair in its maze of pins and plaiting. The rest--somewhat unfashionably, but Christine had a fondness for the style regardless--spilling down her back, a wave of tumbling warm umber that Erik wanted to run his fingers through. 

“Shall we?” She asked, although it wasn’t really a question, and took his arm. In that short walk to the box, Erik thought he might know some small part of what Raoul felt as he led Christine through parties, on strolls in the park. The pride, the utter happiness of a woman you loved at your side, where others could see. The thing--one of the things--about which he had been so desperately, violently jealous, and now he had it--a taste at least. 

The box itself was on the third level over the floor seating, offering perhaps not the best view of the production, but it was not the view Erik was especially concerned with. The music was of far greater importance, and sound traveled clearly from the stage to their little private nest up and away from the crowd. Christine caught him, more than once, watching her as she watched the stage. 

"You're going to make me self-conscious," she whispered, nudging him gently with her elbow. There was fondness in her eyes when she looked over her shoulder at him; she was, after all, accustomed to Erik's eyes on her by now.

"Is it strange?" he asked, leaning in to keep their voices soft. "To watch from here when you've spent so much time on stage yourself?" 

"Was it strange for you coming through the front door?"

He studied her a moment, and then cracked a smile. "Yes, I suppose it was."

She sat back in her chair, and her hand found his, threading their fingers together. "It's hard to watch and not imagine what I would do in their positions. To not try and guess the tricks of their staging.”

“It is the curse of the artist that we must lose the layman’s experience of art.” He looked down, sniffing derisively. “Their woodwind section is so lethargic, I worry if they aren’t all suffering from some malady of the lungs.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, not _quite_ chuckling. “It’s not as bad as all that. Aren’t you enjoying it?”

“Immensely,” he said, squeezing her hand and never looking away from her perfect face. 

During intermission, Christine left the box briefly to refresh and stretch her legs. When she returned, Erik noticed a wrinkle of unease over her brow, but she waved it away, citing the hurry to return to her seat before the next act. She seemed to calm as the lights lowered again, at least, and by the time the next number was nearly done, her hand had found its way to his thigh.

The next song was sweet and sad, almost ethereal in its melancholy, and Christine’s hand drifted higher. 

“Is there a draft, you think?” Christine asked, with some--if he was not mistaken--performative innocence, and Erik eyed her questioningly. “Perhaps you’d better put your cape over our laps to keep the warmth in.”

He hadn’t let the doorman take his cape or his hat as he’d entered the Opera, feeling too exposed without them, and now he was grateful he hadn’t for entirely new reasons--reasons he wasn’t entirely clear on, just yet. Still, it was Christine, so instead of questioning her as he might have instinctively, Erik pulled the cape from where it hung on the back of his chair and draped it over the two of them. Christine’s touch traveled up, incrementally, until it rested on the fly of his trousers. 

“Christine…” Erik said, because some part of him thought he should object, but the objection died on his tongue when she found his stiffening length through the fabric and squeezed. 

She leaned to speak into his ear. “I think this might help you forget about the lackluster woodwinds,” she breathed, “and enjoy the music without such a critical ear.”

His eyes darted to the seats opposite theirs, the occupants watching the performance attentively, and down to the crowd below, entirely unaware of anything happening over their heads. Christine slid her hand from beneath the shroud, and began pulling off her long glove one finger at a time. 

“Do me a favor and open your pants?”

Erik swallowed, and his fingers fumbled under the cape. When Christine’s hand--bare and warm and bold--returned, it slid into his open fly, finding his length and caressing it. Erik hissed, and his hips moved slightly--as slightly as he could manage--into her touch. She pulled him from his trousers, and he tugged the edge of the cape higher up his middle, further obscuring the scene beneath it to any outside observer. 

Of course, the chance that they would be seen was vanishingly small. The box was high and thoroughly blocked anything below the waist, but Erik--perhaps because of his own time spent sneaking and spying--could not entirely discount the threat of some secret audience. It was, perhaps, the result of his own suspicion that Christine loving him so boldly as this was an imbalance that fate would not allow to go unanswered.

But the lights were low, they were ensconced in shadow, and Christine’s touch was just as intoxicating as it ever was. She stroked him, and Erik did not worry about what he deserved, the anxieties driven from his head by her, by his need, and the music that travelled so sweetly to his ears.

She quickened her pace, and Erik pressed his back to the chair, trying to school his face into something approaching neutrality. 

“Oh, Christine, you are too good--too good--” 

“Shh,” she breathed against his neck, and shifted so that her head rested on his shoulder. As though--to anyone looking in--she were merely feeling drowsy this early in the evening. “Raoul’s not the only one with surprises tonight.”

Erik let out a breathy chuckle. “Apparently not--ah, God--” Her hand twisted, and it was so, so hard not to meet her strokes with his own thrusts.

“When we get home, I want you to free me from this dress and take me. I want to have my fill of you.”

“My dear--oh, I would take you here and now if I could, oh please--” He pressed his hand to his own mouth to keep from gasping too loudly. The music swelled, having moved on from the melancholy tune, the crisp, ringing voice of the soprano meeting her tenor in hopeful, building ecstasy. 

She cooed at his side, her free hand clutching at her own waist as if to brace herself. “I want you, Erik,” she said, and soon his fingers were fumbling in his jacket pockets, finally pulling free a handkerchief and bringing it under the cape. Her grip was unrelenting, and he hardly had time to catch his release--tearing through him, fleeing like shadows from light--in the cloth. 

For a few fleeting moments, he was awash with the music, carried by it as his mind cleared once more. He tucked himself away as Christine pulled her hand free, and they spent the rest of the performance with her leaning against him, the warmth of her bare arm penetrating his jacket as though he sat by the hearth. 

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the opera

It wasn’t easy, but once again Erik and Christine waited for the crowd to disperse before stepping into the foyer of the Opéra de Marseille. The show had been wonderful, almost rejuvenating for Erik, who had gone longer than he realized without hearing music other than his own idle musings on piano and violin. 

But he had not forgotten Christine’s whispers as she clutched him in her talented hand, and now that the spell of the music had worn off, a current of impatience quickened Erik’s step. Christine hurried too, although she ducked her head more than when they had entered. When they stepped into the waiting carriage she sat opposite him--somehow distant even in the cramped quarters-- and watched the window nervously until the driver clucked at the horses and they were safely on their way. 

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, and then in response to his skeptical look: “Madame Levasseur. I ran into her during intermission.”

“What about Madame has you so uneasy?”

Christine sighed. “She’s a perfectly charming woman, just--just a bit of a busybody. I didn’t want her cornering us with an interrogation.”

“I see.” It had been unwise for them to be out like this, and Erik had been a fool to let her smiling face and eager eyes convince him to waltz into a den of well-dressed vipers as though love might protect him from their venom. Christine had finally begun to escape the rumors and aspersions that followed her, and Erik would risk bringing them back, for what? A night at the opera?

“You don’t need to worry. I do not think anyone paid us any notice as we left, and I won’t put you in that position again.”

He had hoped to reassure her, but when she raised her eyes to meet his they were ringed with lines of distress. She looked out the window once more, studying the dark streets for signs--Erik assumed--of danger. Coming to some decision, she shifted, maneuvering her voluminous skirt until she sat next to him. She took his hand and squeezed--for his consolation or her own, Erik wasn’t sure. 

Erik felt immediately lighter once the door to their home closed behind him. Within these walls, at least, was a modicum of safety for them all. The serving staff were the only sets of eyes and ears he had to worry about, and he didn’t worry much. They had all been in the employ of Monsieur de Chagny for years. One of them--an old, kind-eyed woman--even helped to raise the little Viscount. They all knew to knock before entering closed rooms, and none of them seemed the gossiping type. They knew Erik lived there, of course--although, he thought with some smugness, if he’d wanted to elude them he probably could--but Erik did what he could to not be obtrusive. He kept his rooms in good order, the housemaid only entering very occasionally to dust or empty his small wastebasket before it overflowed with abandoned music. If they doubted that he was merely an infirm relative of the lady of the house, they did not show it. At any rate, they were likely all in bed for the night, a peaceful quiet fallen over the house like fresh snow.

Christine, too, seemed more at ease. She removed her gloves and pulled pins from her hair as she made her way through the house, Erik trailing behind and watching as her nimble fingers pulled loose one curl, then another, combing through them so they joined the waterfall of chestnut down her shoulders.

He did put his fingers through it now, because there was nothing stopping him, and Christine slowed to let him. He sought out the few remaining pins, plucking them gently from her hair and smoothing it out. When he'd pulled the last free, she turned to him. 

Christine looked as though she wanted to say something, but instead she only kissed his cheek--the one that wasn’t covered by the mask. She continued down the hall, and Erik almost broke the silence to ask if she wanted him to follow, but both of them stopped at the low light coming from under the door in the parlour. 

Christine opened the door to reveal Raoul--his back at least--hunched on the sofa, his head in his hand. He had removed his jacket, throwing it haphazardly over a chair, which was unlike him. Raoul turned, and his tie had also been removed, his shirt opened at the collarbone. His hair was mussed, Erik guessed, by his agitated hands running through it. When he saw Christine his frustration receded somewhat, at least, and he held out his hand. 

“Darling,” Christine said, concern creeping in. “What is it?”

He looked up at her, and then down at the hand she placed in his palm. “I’m afraid I’m in a foul mood and won’t be very good company.”

She circled the couch, sitting by him. Erik lingered by the chair, unsure if he should leave. 

“But what _put_ you in the foul mood? The business that kept you out tonight?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face wearily, and sat back. “Family business, unfortunately.”

Christine straightened her back almost imperceptibly. She blinked. “I didn’t know your family was visiting. Why didn’t you mention it? I could have come to supper with you.” Her hand ran down his arm, supportive. 

“Just Phillipe, and he asked for me to arrive unaccompanied. Of course he did! He couldn’t risk having another person at the table taking my side in the matter.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t have wanted you there anyway, my darling. Your night was surely much better than mine. At least I hope?”

She smiled, a small but genuine curve of her mouth, and glanced back to Erik before returning her attention to the perturbed Viscount. “It was lovely. Thank you again. I only wish you could’ve spent the evening with us.” She held his hand, and looked at him with some determination. “But what happened?”

Raoul opened his mouth to speak, and then clenched his jaw. He started again. “Phillipe wanted to discuss the engagement of our sister Roseline.”

“Roseline is engaged?” Christine asked, clearly surprised. Erik generally stayed out of the de Chagny family affairs, but it had not escaped his notice that Roseline de Chagny was nearly thirty and still unwed. Not an impossibility, but, he’d gathered, somewhat unusual for a family of note. 

“No, she’s decidedly not, and that, apparently, is the problem.”

“Well, Phillipe is older than her, and he’s not married yet,” said Christine, some defensiveness flaring in her for her sister-in-law. The de Chagny family--the de-facto patriarch Phillipe most notably--had not been entirely thrilled with Christine and Raoul’s nuptials, but Roseline had been at odds with them, finding the romance of the whole affair too enchanting to discount for reasons of social standing, and Christine had not forgotten it.

“That’s what I told him! And he said that men older than him have produced heirs, but if she wants to make a good match she’ll have to act quicker than he does.” His shoulders slumped, and he continued, “And perhaps that is a fair point, I don’t--but the _man_ he proposes--he’s insufferable.”

“There is a suitor?”

“The _Marquis de Rothe_ , who joined us for supper,” Raoul said, his voice dripping in derision. "A self-important braggart who fancies himself a great sportsman, wearing buttons of ivory carved from--to hear him tell it--the tusks of a massive bull elephant, felled by him with a single well placed shot. A hunter! For Rosaline, who used to try and save the mice when the stable cats got to them. I don't know what Phillipe is thinking." 

Erik didn't sit, but he did come to stand nearer to the couple. "Has he made his intentions clear to Roseline?" He asked.

"Entirely, and he has been soundly rejected. It would be one thing if she harbored some affection for this Marquis. Then I might at least take solace in his title and the fact that she would live comfortably, but in the face of rejection this huntsman now seeks to use familial pressure where traditional wooing has failed."

"Surely Phillipe would not try to force the hand of his own sister--" Christine began.

"Until tonight I might have said the same!" Raoul was properly upset now, the sullen cloud of defeat that had hung over him clearing into sharp frustration. "I told the Marquis--as politely as I could manage--that no matter what arguments he might make in his favor to us, as long as our sister did not love him the matter was quite settled. And he said 'of course you would feel that way,' as though it were absurd. I looked to Phillipe, and my brother told me--" he paused, wounded by something in the memory as he looked away from Christine.

"What?" She asked, her concern deepening.

"I don't wish to repeat it."

"Raoul, please, don't leave me to guess at what upsets you."

"He said--" Raoul interrupted himself with a huff. "--that I have already brought our family name low enough with my chorus girl, so my sister must be prudent where I was not." It pained him to say it, but that did not make it any easier for Christine to hear.

"Oh," she said, and at once Erik was furious. Christine's eyes were downcast, clearly stung by the declaration.

"You let him say such a thing?" Erik asked bitingly. Unfairly. 

Anger flashed in Raoul's eyes at the question. "I didn't _let_ him do anything. I stood and left, and I daresay that if he weren't my brother I might have struck him."

Erik could see this was the truth, but it did little to deflect his desire to lash out. "Perhaps you should have! Really give that Marquis a show, eh? Show him all that de Chagny breeding doesn't add up to a properly civilized gentleman, with or without your _chorus girl_." 

"Erik." There was hurt in Christine’s voice now.

Raoul stood, his lip curling up as he faced him. “And how noble of _you_ , casting aspersions on my family,” Raoul said. “I don’t suppose you have any opinions on the man pursuing a woman against her wishes? Perhaps some helpful advice for the good Marquis?”

Erik seethed--struck frozen and silent by shame, and by the knowledge that if he took a step closer to Raoul there was a very real possibility this spat would come to blows. 

Christine saw this, saw a similar fire in Raoul’s eyes, and stood. She made no move to get between them.

“You’re both acting like children,” she said, her voice calm and uncompromising. “Raoul, that was cruel, and you know it.” 

Cruel, not untrue, Erik thought bitterly. 

“And you don’t need to antagonize him, Erik. It’s not his fault that his brother was rude, and I’m glad he told me, even if it was unpleasant to hear.”

Erik turned so that he wouldn’t have to see their eyes on him. He pressed his hand to his forehead and--he still wore the mask from their evening out. He took the damnable thing off, let it drop to the chair beside him. 

“Darling,” said Christine, “the three of you shouldn’t be deciding your sister’s fate over supper. She ought to be included in the discussion. It sounds like the Marquis de Rothe already made his case, and if your brother wishes Roseline to reconsider, he should take it up with her. And if you--” Erik still faced away, but he could tell that she had moved to stand closer to Raoul “--want to warn her away, then perhaps we should invite her here. We haven’t seen her since the wedding, and I’d love an excuse to know my sister-in-law better.”

Erik turned to them again and found that Raoul’s face had softened completely. He held Christine’s hand in his, and brought it to his lips. “You’re right. I’ll write her a letter tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Erik said suddenly, straightening his shoulders from the slump they had fallen into. 

“Come here,” Christine said, her face so immediately forgiving, and she held out a hand. 

The three of them sat on the sofa, Christine in the middle. Raoul’s head dropped to her shoulder as Erik traced the lines of her hand with his fingers. 

“Roseline is very dear to me,” said Raoul, and Christine hummed affirmatively. “Phillipe was so much older; he was more like a father to us, really. And I love Therese, of course, but she was always more Phillipe’s companion than mine, being a young woman by the time I was born. Roseline was my real playmate, old enough that I believed her to be impossibly wise, but not so much that she was bothered by the company of her baby brother. Maybe I am thinking of her too much as a friend, and not like a sister. Phillipe wants a good match for her, and there are worse fates than becoming a Marquess.”

“Is the match a good one if she objects to it? Your brother may have noble intentions, but it sounds to me like Roseline could use the counsel of someone less concerned with her title and more concerned with her heart.”

Raoul took a deep breath, and nodded. A tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We used to play at being pirates, you know. Finding sticks and hitting each other with them until our nursemaid found us and had a fit over the state of our clothes. When we decided that our merry band of two had to rescue a fair maiden from the clutches of a rival crew, Roseline staunchly refused to play the part of their prisoner, so she went to the stables and found one of those cats--they loved her even though she sometimes stole their mice--and put it in a little wooden cage, declaring it our beautiful captured lady. We spent an hour or so beating back branches and bushes that stood in for our enemies, and finally released the poor creature, quite proud of our noble deed.”

Erik could not help but smile at the image, despite the distant pang of jealousy--of yearning for a childhood so easy--that came with it. "It sounds as though this Marquis and your brother have set themselves quite the task," Erik said, as an olive branch, but also because he knew something of rejecting a role laid out for you, and the sort of stubbornness it took to resist it. "I don't know Roseline, but I can't imagine she's quite the easy prey this suitor seems to believe."

Raoul leaned forward, his face inscrutable as he studied Erik's own. "I think you're right, and it's that spirit of hers that makes me loathe the thought of her trapped in a loveless marriage with some pompous tyrant of a man."

"Well, until the vows are exchanged," Christine said, "she's not beholden to anyone."

This seemed to put Raoul at ease, and the three of them sat in companionable silence for some minutes, Christine combing her fingers through his hair at her shoulder, and Erik running his thumbs over the gentle slopes of her knuckles. 

"I should turn in for the night," Raoul said, "before I start thinking about everything again." 

Erik got up from the couch as Christine said, "All of this will be less dire in the morning, I'm sure. I'm sorry your brother thinks so little of your taste in wives, but I meant what I said. I don't hold his words against you."

Circling until he faced their backs, Erik shrugged off his jacket. 

The look on Raoul's face was one of complete adoration. "And I put no stock in them. I hope you know that."

"I do," she said, and kissed him, light but savoring it, on his mouth. When they parted, Erik studied Raoul’s face, and decided. 

Wrapping his hand around the Viscount’s neck, Erik squeezed--gently, but enough to get his attention. Raoul did not look up, but his fingers pressed into the couch cushion. Erik bent to speak into his ear.

"Before you head off, you might want to hear the request that your lovely wife made of me tonight."

Erik hadn't been entirely sure if Raoul's mood was still too sour to indulge in this particular exercise, but he took the gamble and found the Viscount yielding and responsive to the touch, the words, so he pressed on.

"She asked me to remove that exquisite dress," Erik breathed hot against the Viscount's ear and looked to Christine, who was gazing at both of them, her eyes glittering. "And fuck her."

"Did she?" Erik could feel the jump in Raoul's pulse as he asked, and Christine ran her hand up his leg.

"I did."

The Viscount inhaled, and Erik let him go, stepping away despite the barely audible whine that escaped his throat. Erik made his way to the window as he continued. "I would hate to deny such a simple request. Wouldn't you?"

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said the Viscount, reaching out to cup Christine’s face. 

Erik took hold of the cord that held the decorative curtains in place and slid it free. This gave him a short length of rope, soft to the touch but strong enough for its intended purpose. He approached the couple, again from behind, and as the Viscount turned to place a kiss on his wife’s slightly parted lips, Erik seized one arm and pulled it back. When his shoulders were flat against the sofa, Erik took hold of the Viscount's other arm so that both his elbows pointed up, his wrists brought together behind his head. He looped the cord around them, then coiled it around his neck to anchor his arms in place. The Viscount squirmed as Christine looked on, one of her hands tracing over him, teasing him through his clothes.

Erik made his way back around the couch, his fingers grazing the intricately carved wooden accents. Christine gazed at him over her shoulder and swept her hair from her back: an invitation. He did not hesitate to accept, putting his hands on her waist and pressing a kiss to the back of her neck.

He worked at the fastenings in her dress, feeling a rush of heat to his groin as her stiff bodice fell away, another as she stepped from her skirts. He unfastened her corset and freed her from it as well before snaking his hands under her chemise to feel the smooth warmth of her skin. 

She turned and reached up and pulled him down, as though she wanted him closer, his own body pressed to her perfect one with no barrier between. Erik kissed her and broke away to pull the chemise over her head. Tugging at the drawstring of her drawers, he let them fall in a pool at her feet, and leaned in once more. As one hand rose to cup her breast and the other slid down past her waist, Christine placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back.

"Not yet," she murmured. "I want to see you."

It didn't shock him anymore, that she wanted him--not with the full-body jolt that landed somewhere between elation and panic, at least--but it still made his heart beat faster to see that hunger written so plainly on her face. Some part of him still rejected the premise outright, couldn't reconcile his perception of himself with the sight, but that only made the touch of her fingers as she pulled off his shirt and worked open his pants more impossibly charged. 

When their clothes were gone, Erik's hands roamed again, clutching at her like she might leave, nestling his face under her jaw and inhaling. "Let me, let me..." and it didn't matter what he was asking for, because he wanted anything at all, so long as it was more of her.

She dropped out of his reach, settling on the sofa next to the Viscount, who stared at her with half-lidded, almost dazed eyes. Christine raked her nails up his thigh, still covered by his trousers, making him hiss through his teeth, and shifted until she sat with parted legs just on the end of the cushion. It was all the permission Erik needed. 

On his knees, Erik trailed kisses up her thigh. When he reached her sex, he pressed a kiss there too, and Christine sighed and trembled around him. 

“You’re dripping, my dear.” He slid his tongue in her folds, tasting that familiar, heady wetness, and she cooed like a dove when he lapped at her again. “Tell me what I can do for you,” he said, looking up at her, over the shallow rise and fall of her chest, to her lovely face. 

“Keep doing exactly that,” she said, and it was authoritative, but with a breathiness that gave her away. Erik licked at her folds, sucked at the sensitive nub of flesh within, and dipped his tongue into her entrance, all of it drawing high, helpless, beautiful sounds from Christine’s throat. She was already so wound up, it was hardly any work at all to bring her to the point of gasping. 

“Please, Erik--please--” she muttered, and Erik lifted his mouth just enough to reply.

“Please what?”

“Take me,” she said, clutching at his forearm where it wrapped around her hip. “I want you inside me.”

“Oh darling,” said the Viscount, “Oh--look at you.” As Erik backed away, Christine turned to face her Viscount, reaching into his shirt where it opened at the collar and splaying her fingers over his chest. She looked back to Erik and quirked an eyebrow at him before moving to swing her leg over the Viscount’s lap, straddling him. The round swell of her backside swayed before Erik, and he took his place behind her. Christine braced herself on the sofa, her hands planted on either side of the Viscount’s bound arms. Her teeth grazed his jaw, just above the line of rope that spanned his throat, and he made a wordless sound that seemed to satisfy her.

Erik ran his hand over Christine’s hip, the soft curve of her belly, and down between her thighs. She moaned and backed herself against him, brushing against his stiffening cock. Taking it in hand, Erik pressed the tip to her entrance, the wet glaze of her slickness beckoning him forward. Lined up, Christine pushed back again, this time sheathing him in her hot, gripping walls, and Erik groaned. 

“Oh--Erik,” she sighed against the Viscount’s ear. “You feel so good.”

His fingers rubbed at that sensitive button in her folds, his length disappearing into her with a building tempo. Christine met his thrusts, gasping against her Viscount’s chest, until finally she cried out, shuddering and tensing around Erik through the waves of her climax.

Erik fell forward, pressing kisses to her back and continuing to thrust, less hurried now, only basking in the smooth drag, the friction that seemed to travel from his cock and up his spine. He glanced up to find the Viscount’s face, his lips parted and wet, his breathing shallow and stuttering. 

He watched that mouth, and pulled himself free of Christine’s intoxicating heat with some effort. Her eyes blinked open as she turned to look at him, questioning.

By way of answer, Erik held her waist, pulling her back slightly to see the sight before them. “I believe your poor Viscount is starving, my dear.”

She pushed the hair back from the Viscount’s face, and studied him. She dragged her short nails over the thin fabric of his shirt, down his chest until they reached his waistband, and the Viscount’s hips jumped. “Mmm,” she hummed. “I think you’re right.”

Christine slid off his lap and moved to open his pants, but Erik stayed her hand. “I think we might whet his appetite further still,” he said, and grabbed the Viscount by the front of his shirt. Tugging him forward until he dropped from the edge of the seat cushion and onto his knees, Erik took himself in hand--and hesitated.

He did not hesitate often with the Viscount. He found that the man responded well to decisive action, but what he considered now was a step beyond their usual script. Erik’s touches were generally limited to what was necessary to put the Viscount in his place--simple, quick motions to bind him or maneuver him for Christine’s benefit, a slap or tightening of rope to keep his blood up. But this was--they did not share pleasure with one another, not so directly. Christine was the lightning rod, and they were drawn to her, not each other, but--

His eyes were wide, but not afraid, as he strained to look up at Erik, and his lips were still parted and glistening. 

“Are you hungry for her, Monsieur le Vicomte?” Erik watched the cord at his throat bob as he swallowed.

“Yes,” rasped the Viscount.

“Then have a taste,” said Erik, and brought his cock to the Viscount’s mouth. 

The three of them were unmoving for what seemed like a long moment, and Erik wondered if he had miscalculated. He could feel the Viscount’s hot breath on his length, and all at once that was replaced by the heat of his mouth, those pale pink lips spreading to accommodate the flesh. 

Erik hissed despite himself, and he felt the Viscount’s tongue slid along the underside of his length before pulling back, pulling off. The Viscount closed his eyes, the cord at his neck bobbed again, and then he groaned, returning to take Erik’s cock back into his hungry mouth.

Erik stole a glance at Christine, and she was watching breathlessly. The Viscount’s mouth moved further down Erik’s length, and Erik hands balled into fists at his side. The feeling of it wasn’t so unlike Christine’s mouth--with her plump lips and agile tongue--but the eyes that looked up at him before fluttering closed under that furrowed brow made it seem like something entirely new. 

The Viscount--chasing the lingering notes of Christine’s slick or perhaps something less tangible--worked his way down until Erik felt a sudden stop, and the Viscount gagged, pulling back at once and gasping. His eyes were immediately downcast and searching, and Erik moved back minutely, a tinge of worry cutting through his arousal.

Christine moved until she was behind the Viscount, leaning down to speak into his ear as her arms wrapped around his chest. “Oh darling,” she said, one hand rising up under his chin. “You look so lovely like this.” The Viscount leaned into her touch, some of that searching panic melting away at her words. “Show me what you want.”

Reassured, the Viscount leaned forward once more, this time dragging his tongue down the side of Erik’s length, from base to tip, before taking it in his mouth again. The restraints fought him as he ducked his head to take Erik deeper, and Erik bent his knees so the angle might be better. When the Viscount found a rhythm that worked, Erik curled his hands around his arms--strong but ineffectual under the rope--and squeezed. He didn’t guide him or push--careful of the poor Viscount’s apparent gag-reflex--but let his grip act as reminder, a possessive pressure that followed along with that sweet enveloping motion. 

“God, yes--” Erik bit out as the Viscount increased his speed, spit dripping down his chin, and Erik had to _fight_ the urge to thrust. The Viscount, having found his confidence, was relentless. Christine threaded her fingers in his hair, murmuring encouragements that Erik was too distracted to parce. 

Gripping the base of his length once more, Erik managed “Raoul, I--I’m going to finish,” and the Viscount pulled back. Erik thought he might let the organ go, let the release spill somewhere--anywhere--else, but he mouthed the head and sucked, and soon Erik’s seed spilled into that waiting mouth, coating that deft tongue and straining throat. 

Erik groaned with the force of it, squeezing the Viscount’s arm harder than he likely should have. When the Viscount let Erik’s cock fall from his mouth, panting and slack and thoroughly debauched, Erik could not help but brush his thumb over those swollen lips. 

Erik blinked to clear his mind from its reverie, and looked back to Christine. She pressed kisses to her Viscount’s arms and shoulders, which trembled now from being held in such an unnatural position. 

“Would you like to make some use of him, my dear? By now he’s surely aching for it.” 

"I would," she replied, running her hand up the Viscount's side before moving away. Erik seized the Viscount by the front of his shirt once more, this time hauling him back to his earlier position on the sofa. Christine wasted no time, making quick work of his trousers, opening and pulling them down past his knees. His erection, already pronounced, stiffened to its full height once Christine's fingers grasped it. He was muttering a string of pleas and wordless utterances, and she settled in his lap.

Erik dropped to one side of the sofa, his own legs weak, his mind clearing of the carnal haze that had taken hold. He watched the couple, still very much in the thick of it, Christine pawing at the poor Viscount as he could do little more than gaze at her, desperate and adoring. 

“Look at you,” she said, tracing her fingers down the side of his face. Her thumb dragged down his chin, parting his lips just slightly, and she leaned in to kiss him, licking into his mouth as though she meant to devour him.

Christine lowered herself on him, her own head falling back as the Viscount moaned. Her hands clasped around his neck, she started moving her hips, grinding their bodies together, quick and demanding, with no time for the Viscount to acclimate to that sublime heat. His face almost pained, his hips began to rise and meet her, and together they became a chorus of gasps and moans.

“Christine--I, oh--” he forced the words out, and they were imploring. “I love you. I _love_ you, darling, I--”

“Shh.” She cupped the sides of his face. “I know, Raoul. I know you do.” They moved with such fervor now that the legs of the sofa creaked on the floor, and Christine looked into her Viscount’s eyes. “Fill me with it. Like Erik spilling into your mouth, darling-- _please_.”

The Viscount’s eyes screwed shut, and it was something like agony when his release tore through him. Christine held him, kept him deep inside her through the last of his shuddering thrusts, her face its own contortion of pleasure so absolute it too read like a distorted reflection of pain. 

When they had both more or less caught their breath, Christine rolled off the Viscount, slumping next to him all loose limbs and sudden drowsiness. She glanced at Erik and reached out a hand, grazing his knee with the tips of her fingers. “Would you take care of his--?” and she gestured with her wrists together, miming as though they were bound. 

The hint of a smile tugged at Erik’s mouth, and he stood. The knot released easily, and Raoul groaned when he lowered his arms again, bending and unbending at the elbow, rotating his wrists. 

“I hope that wasn’t too uncomfortable.” Erik said, because it seemed polite, and because there was some small part of him that was concerned. 

Raoul smiled his easy smile, looking up and back to where Erik stood. “It certainly wasn’t the _most_ comfortable configuration of yours.” He massaged the muscles in his forearm. “But I’m not complaining.” He stared up at Erik another moment, as though there was more to say, but nothing filled the silence. Christine reached out and caught Erik by the wrist, tugging him down into a kiss. 

She hummed against his mouth and held him close even after they parted. “Come to bed with us?” 

Erik thought of the warmth in that bed, of his limbs tangling with Christine’s, of the smell of her skin greeting him in the morning, and he wanted to say yes. He thought of Raoul’s mussed hair, and of his shining, swollen lips.

“I was thinking of doing some more work on _Marguerite_ this evening. Don’t wait up for me.”

Christine’s forehead creased only briefly with disappointment, but soon she sighed and squeezed his hand. “All right. Goodnight, Erik.”

He gathered his trousers and shirt from their heap on the floor--best not to leave suspicious assortments of clothes behind for the maid--and kissed Christine once on the top of her head. 

“Goodnight, my dear.”

\---


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a visitor

It was two weeks later when Roseline de Chagny arrived in her carriage, one plump, bright-eyed maid alongside her. It worried Erik more than he cared to admit, having another person within these walls. He had no reason to mistrust the Mademoiselle de Chagny, but it put him on edge all the same. 

Erik watched from a window as Raoul and Christine greeted her at the door. She was, from what he could see, a perfectly handsome woman. Her hair was a shade darker than her brother’s, but with the same sandy streaks throughout, and she hopped from the carriage before a hand could be extended to her. The three of them exchanged hugs and earnest cries of delight, and threads of anxiety pulled tighter around Erik’s ribs. He considered locking the door to his rooms behind him, claiming some sudden attack of his mysterious illness. He thought of leaving out the back door, of simply disappearing as long as Roseline stayed with them. It wasn’t so long ago that he had managed to elude the myriad cast, crew, and countless patrons of the finest opera house in France, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to do it again, retreating to some imagined safety of his own creation.

But he would not, because Christine had said she wanted him to meet Roseline. Raoul had been hesitant. Up to now, Erik’s presence was hardly--if ever--mentioned outside of the house. On the rare occasion that the Monsieur and Madame de Chagny entertained visitors, he kept entirely to his rooms, and the serving staff knew better than to remark upon his absence. This was as much Erik’s preference as it was Raoul or Christine’s, as some faint recognition or dangerous question from their guests might easily spell disaster.

But Roseline was different, Christine had said. She was family, although this fact hardly put Raoul at ease; his family was perhaps the party which concerned him most. 

Erik had overheard their discussion. His rooms shared a door with theirs--convenient when he needed to duck out before the maid came to wake them in the morning. Erik often wondered how much the serving staff understood of the arrangement between himself and their employers, but he had no intention to give them additional cause for suspicion. Sound travelled remarkably clearly through the small vent over the door frame, and Erik had spent too long living as a ghost to resist the urge to eavesdrop when the opportunity was presented to him.

“I worry that Phillipe's preoccupation with our family's standing will lead him to over turn some rocks we are not yet prepared to uncover. The more Roseline knows, the more he might discover."

"We're inviting her here so she knows she can trust us not to give in to your brother's pressure. It doesn't make much sense to hide an entire person from her. And we can hardly expect Erik to lock himself away while she's here. We don't even know how long that will be."

"We could put him up somewhere," Raoul said, and Erik thought it was not such a terrible idea, even if it came with the familiar sting of being something hidden away, shameful. Better that than becoming a curiosity on display, at least.

“Is that really what you want?”

If Raoul responded, Erik did not hear, and after a moment Christine continued, “You trust your sister, don’t you?”

“We can’t tell her--everything.”

“No,” Christine said, “But we’ll share what we can.”

So now Erik retreated from the window to the parlour to await them, standing in anticipation--of precisely what, he couldn’t say.

Raoul opened the door, waving through Christine, Roseline, and her entourage of one in a gentlemanly fashion. Roseline's eyes fell on Erik and widened--only just--when she noticed the mask, but she soon schooled her face back to the practiced warmth of a charming lady. She was an imposing figure, and not only because she had a good inch on her brother in height. Roseline seemed in possession of a particular comfort in her own skin, a straight back and an easy confidence that put Erik on edge.

She held out her hand, unafraid, and as Erik took it, bowing to her in greeting, she said, "You must be Erik. I've heard so much about you."

"Yes, l--” this stopped him short. “--you have?"

Her lips were a thin line, and she stared at him, sizing him up. Erik realized he still held her hand, and released it. 

At that she cracked a wide smile and planted her hands on her hips. "Of course not! These two have hardly said a word, and I only learned you were staying here when I got out of the carriage just now." She turned to her brother. "Any more houseguests I should know about, Raoul?"

He smiled back at her helplessly, raising his hands in surrender. “None that I know of. But come, sit! You must be tired from the trip. Let’s have some tea, hmm?” He gestured to an armchair on one side of the sofa. 

She did sit, Erik taking his place opposite, with Christine and Raoul perching on the sofa together. 

"So, Erik," said Roseline, meeting his eyes directly. "I gather you're some relation of Christine's. What can you tell me about yourself, since my brother and his lovely wife insist on being so rudely tight-lipped?"

“Oh,” said Christine, leaning forward a little nervously. “It’s only that my--my cousin is very private and I--we--”

“Hush! I’m only teasing,” said Roseline, waving her hand in a way that was somehow both dismissive and fond. “I promise I won’t pry too much. And besides, if I’m being honest, I’m mostly hoping that Erik here will shed some light on my dear mysterious sister-in-law, whom I’ve hardly seen since she stole my brother’s heart and whisked him away from us in Paris.”

Christine's fingers fidgeted in her lap. She opened her mouth to explain, and Raoul looked as though he might do the same, but Erik interjected.

"Come now, Mademoiselle. You can't expect me to reveal all of Christine's secrets when she has so diligently kept my own."

Roseline smiled at that, sly, clearly pleased that Erik at least was playing along. “Ah, so you admit there are secrets!” She looked back to Christine, leaning forward and taking her hand with an affectionate squeeze. “Well, don’t worry so much. Everyone’s got secrets. It’s what makes us interesting.”

There remained a current of tension in the air, like a note played just out of hearing, but Christine seemed to relax, and Erik found Roseline’s directness to be not so terrible as he feared, if still jarring. 

“Would you like to know what upsets me the most, dear brother?”

Raoul sat back and sighed, but the exasperation was feigned. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“I’ve heard so much talk about the exquisite voice of Christine Daaé, and yet I’ve never heard her sing. It’s downright embarrassing that I can’t brag about private renditions of famous arias to all the envious ladies of Paris.”

“I suspect you’ve heard other things, too,” said Christine, glancing to the floor, and then back up. “About me.”

Roseline waved her hand again. “I don’t pay attention to the petty gossip. It’s usually exaggerated or made up entirely, because people love to embellish when they’re tearing someone down. But the nice things? The grudging compliments? There’s almost always more truth in those. And even when they’re recounting some sordid rumor or another, they all say you had about the sweetest voice in France.”

“Still has,” said Erik.

“In that case,” Roseline’s eyes darted to Erik with a mischievous glint, and then back to Christine. “I’m afraid I must insist. Tell me you’ll sing for me before I go? Nothing too complicated. I just can’t let Raoul have you all to himself, you know.”

“Oh,” said Christine, put on the spot and still wanting to please the one member of her new family who treated her decently. It had been hard enough, with parties full of acquaintances and strangers, to sing without the support of a theater company behind her.

Raoul put a hand on her back, encouraging, and said “I’m sure something can be arranged.” 

Christine did not meet any of their eyes as she replied, “I--I suppose I could--”

“I could accompany you,” said Erik, and Christine looked up at him. “A short duet before supper? I’ll play the piano.”

“Oh, musical talent is a family trait I see!” Roseline seemed utterly delighted by the addition, and Christine relaxed noticeably. 

"Then it's settled," said Raoul, pleased. "You'll get your private show tonight. I'll show you to your rooms after tea, and--"

Whatever Raoul had intended to say was cut off by a shrill cry from his sister. 

"Henriette!" Roseline was on her feet at once, and the housemaid hardly had time to set down her tray of refreshments before she was pulled into a warm embrace. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! I’ve missed you terribly.” She towered over the old woman, but she was as excited as a child, and Henriette looked her over like a doting parent. 

She pushed a lock of hair back from Roseline’s forehead. “Oh, my sweet little Rose! I hope the trip wasn’t too boring?”

“Dreadfully, but absolutely worth it. It’s been at least a year since I’ve had your madeleines--” she stopped suddenly to inspect the tray Henriette had carried, plucked one of the small, shell-shaped cakes from its arrangement on the plate and held it up to her nose, inhaling and closing her eyes dreamily. “No one makes them like you, you know.”

Henriette swatted at Roseline with her towel, and in that playfulness was more affection than Erik had seen the woman show in all the months he’d been staying with them. The maid was warmer with Raoul than either Christine or himself, and Erik had chalked that up to their familiarity, but even that was nothing like the interaction between Henriette and Roseline. They were informal, familial, completely at ease, and he wondered if, in some previous time, that had been the way Henriette treated Raoul. He wondered what might account for the relative distance between them now.

“You just have an incorrigible sweet tooth, and I use too much sugar. It’s no great mystery.” 

“Sit with us, Henriette, I insist!” Roseline gestured to her chair, and then pulled another from a side table across the room. “And Camille!” This was the name of her maid, apparently. “You, too. Everyone sit so I can regale you with all the things you’ve missed in Paris, in hopes that you will find it all so completely enthralling that you’ll have no choice but to move back. Camille has heard it all before, but she’s a wonderful listener.” 

She did regale them, spinning otherwise boring stories of aristocratic drama with such a flourish one would think they were the most lurid theater.

When she finished, Raoul showed her and Camille to their rooms, while Christine joined Erik to choose what to sing before supper. 

“You’re nervous,” Erik said when the door closed behind them. 

Her hands were clasped over the front of her bodice. “Singing for one or two people is always harder. Their attention is on you, and you can’t help but pay attention to them. It’s impossible not to feel like you’re being judged--for better or worse.”

“You sing for me regularly.”

She looked at him, the corner of her mouth turning up despite her nerves. “That’s different.”

“I suppose it is. Were you nervous the first time you sang for me?”

“I believed you were a creature sent from heaven, or possibly a voice inside my head, so--no. Nervous isn’t quite the word.”

Erik remembered being that man behind the mirror. It had been thrilling, frightening--a first crack in the crushing loneliness he’d descended into, wrapped around him like armor. That man could not have conceived of the Christine before him now. A Christine who looked at him with fondness, who held his hand without prompting. 

“A fair point.” He brought her knuckles to his mouth and kissed them. “But Roseline seems to be rather fond of you. I don’t think you have to fear her critique.”

Christine sighed, stepped closer to Erik, and looked more at his waistcoat than his eyes when she said, “Raoul warned me that his family wouldn’t be pleased with our marriage. Roseline is the only one who’s never made me feel like I’m some woman he’s slumming with until his real wife comes along. A part of me worries that if she doesn’t like my singing, she’ll decide I wasn’t worth it after all. That my only value as an in-law was overblown.”

“First of all, my dear,” said Erik, tipping her chin up to meet her eyes. “Your voice has never disappointed anyone, and second, you sing beautifully for me, and I promise I am a harsher critic than Roseline could hope to be.”

Christine slid her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. Eventually they ran through a few duets and settled on one, short and simple. Enough for Christine to show off a little, but nothing out of hand. 

Erik played piano, as he promised, and they sang their duet for an audience of two: a chuffed Viscount and his delighted sister. He caught Christine’s eye before they started and held her gaze until he could see the tension in her shoulders relax, the stiffness in her spine give way to an upright confidence. Erik’s part was first, and as he sang the opening notes he stole a glance at Roseline, saw her eyebrows shoot up as she looked at Raoul. Her brother shrugged, smiled at her, and she looked back in time for Christine’s part. Erik let his own voice fall into sotto voce, only serving as a backdrop for hers--sweet and ringing, almost achingly delicate in the air. Roseline’s face was dreamy now, watching Christine’s hands as she gestured with the emotion of the song, her chest as she breathed. 

When the song ended, Roseline all but jumped to her feet, applauding and crossing the room to take Christine’s hands in hers. 

“You were utterly wonderful, Christine! A revelation!” She nodded down to Erik where he still sat on the bench. “And you weren’t so bad yourself, but I get the feeling you already know that.” 

Erik's eyes widened at that, but Roseline only gave him a teasing glance before returning her attention to Christine.

Christine smiled, a relieved and joyous thing that put some of the color back in her cheeks. “You’re too kind, thank you.” She took her arm and wrapped it around Roseline’s. “And he does know it, but I don’t think he ever tires of hearing it.”

Erik stood, clasping his hands behind his back. "I find false modesty to be too tiresome a charade." 

The bridge of Roseline's nose wrinkled in amusement, and she took his arm, sliding her free hand in the crook of his elbow like Christine had hers. Erik startled at the easy touch, but she didn't comment on it. Instead she leaned in. "Lucky you're good enough to get away with it."

As the four of them sat down to supper, Roseline continued, "We've got to get you back on a stage, Christine. I can't believe the Marseille Opera hasn't been courting you already."

Christine paused, and Raoul spoke up in the silence. "We haven't discussed--since the wedding, I mean."

"It wouldn't be proper," said Christine, with a tone so neutral it belied nothing.

"Oh, to Hell with proper. You're too good to only sing at stuffy parties or the request of prodding in-laws." 

"I--I hadn't considered it since…" Since she'd been married to a Viscount, she didn't say. 

"Christine,” Roseline’s tone was a touch more serious. “You're _interesting_ , which is among my favorite qualities for someone to possess, and I'm afraid I'll never forgive my brother if marriage makes you _dull_."

Raoul rolled his eyes. “Being married to me doesn’t make people dull, Roseline.”

She scoffed, wearing her doubt on her sleeve. “Everyone gets boring when they’re married. That’s why I haven’t done it yet.”

“Is it?” It was Raoul’s turn to be skeptical now. “Or is it because there isn’t a single suitor in France who has met your impossible standards?”

She looked down at the table, taking up her glass and swirling the wine in it. “Among other reasons.” She took a sip and studied him. “Don’t tell me Phillipe’s gotten to you, too. I’ve already got Therese writing me letters on his behalf, assuring me that married life is utter bliss. I don’t know that I can take it from you, too.”

“That’s not it at all,” said Christine. 

“Quite the opposite,” Raoul confirmed. “Phillipe introduced me to your would-be suitor, and I found him insufferable. I want you to know that I trust you with matters of your own heart over our dear brother any day.”

Her face softened at that, and she set down her wine. “Is that so?”

“It is,” said Christine. 

Roseline looked away when she asked, “And what if I never marry? Will you trust me then?”

“Never? Listen, Rosie, just because you haven’t found a husband yet--”

“I don’t want to find one.” There was a calm resolve in her voice now, and Erik had the feeling it was something she had imagined saying out loud, perhaps even practiced. “I think Phillipe suspects as much, and so he’s trying to court eligible bachelors on my behalf. I don’t think he can stand the thought of a spinster for a sister.”

There was a pause, and Christine spoke. “It’s no one’s decision but your own, Roseline.” She took Raoul’s hand, squeezed it. “Isn’t that right?”

“It is,” he said. Roseline took a breath, and let it out.

Supper continued with more pleasant--decidedly benign--conversation. Roseline asked Erik and Christine about their favorite operas, composers. She told tales of herself and Raoul as children, of games they played and trouble they found themselves in.

Christine had hardly touched her soup, and Erik assumed she had been wrapped up in the conversation, but when Henriette brought out the second course, she waved away her serving. 

“Are you not feeling well?” asked Raoul. 

Christine swallowed, a crease forming in her brow, but she managed a smile before responding. “I’m fine, just lost my appetite.” She turned to address the rest of the table. “It’s nothing to do with the food! Our cook is very good.”

Roseline spied her, once again looking over the rim of her glass.

“Forgive me if I’m being uncouth, but is it possible that the two of you are going to make me an aunt?”

Raoul chuckled once, shaking his head. “You’re already an aunt five times over, by way of Therese. I thought by now baseless speculation would be beneath you.”

As he spoke, Christine remained frozen. Roseline had noticed, too, and instead of replying to her brother, she looked to his wife and said, with some measure of genuine apology, “Oh dear, I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth, haven’t I? It was bound to happen.”

“It’s fine,” said Christine, although she hardly looked convinced. 

“Christine…” Raoul began, and put his hand over hers.

“It’s really--It’s too early to know, dear.” She looked--almost frightened.

Ice ran down Erik’s spine. “You might be--” he said before he could stop himself.

Raoul, shocked into silence, squeezed her fingers. His face split into a wide grin. “Darling, oh--this is wonderful.”

“It’s--yes, like I said, it’s early and--” she searched for words, “--and I don’t know for certain yet.” 

Erik could not sort through his feelings, and instead watched Christine--the tremble that had made its way to her shoulders, the placid expression that she held in place so precariously. She was poised like the rabbit that's spotted by the hawk, with no burrow to escape to.

Raoul, at last, seemed to notice this, and he spoke up, albeit as confusion knitted his brow. "I suppose you're right, we don't need to start celebrating just yet. Do you need to lie down?"

"No, really, I'm all right. No need to make such a fuss." She squeezed his arm to reassure him. "Roseline, Raoul tells me you spent some time in London two or three years ago. I'd love it if you'd share some stories from that trip. My father and I traveled when I was young, but we never got up that far, and I'm so curious what it's like."

Roseline, recognizing a plea for a change in subject when she heard it, launched into a winding tale that involved all levels of French, British, and--at one particularly surprising turn--Spanish nobility, and at least one detour to Buckingham Palace itself. Erik couldn't begin to say how much of it was true, and in truth he'd hardly been paying attention.

Christine, on the other hand, hung on every word, nodding and gasping and laughing with a slightly forced enthusiasm. Erik watched her, tried to catch her eye in hopes she might give him some hint regarding her sudden shift in mood, but she looked only at Roseline, or down at her empty place-setting, almost defiantly avoiding anything else. 

Erik excused himself when the second course was finished, and only then did Christine's eyes meet his--asking something he did not know how to answer--and he left.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a message
> 
> (a slight warning: some mildly visceral pregnancy anxiety in this chapter)

Christine retired to bed shortly after supper, less because she felt unwell--physically, at least--and more because it spared her the uneasy glances from Raoul. It was bad enough that Erik had gone from the table with hardly a word, leaving Christine to wonder what went through his mind as she was still sorting through her own.

She thought of going to him, but what would she say? She had planned to tell him--both of them--in another month, maybe two, when she'd gone without her menses long enough to have any certainty, but now they both knew, and Christine would have to navigate their feelings sooner than she'd expected. She wanted one more night to sit with it, to clear her head and face it in the morning.

Raoul joined her before long, sliding into bed beside her. He tried to ask, and Christine said she was tired. He let her drift into fitful sleep, wrapped anxiously in his arms. 

She rose before Raoul the next morning, pulling on her dressing gown quietly. She wasn't trying to avoid him, Christine told herself. She only wanted to give herself a chance to clear the grogginess from her mind, to muster some of the enthusiasm that Raoul had shown at supper.

She was happy--wanted to _be_ happy. A pregnancy is what every bride wished for, and not everyone was blessed so quickly. In truth, Christine had hoped that eventually excitement would overtake her nerves, and that would be when she told her husband, when she told her--Erik. Instead she had lived with her suspicions, which became more like certainty with each passing day, for close to 9 weeks, and still she felt no stirring of maternal anticipation, no eagerness to celebrate or prepare. 

She would silently hope to see spots of blood on her chemise as she dressed in the mornings, sick with guilt at her disappointment when it wasn't there. She would dream of blood, soaking through her petticoats, weighing down her skirts, and of her father weeping over her. 

But the blood did not come, and Christine knew it wouldn't, now. Not for many months, when it would come all at once.

She ducked out of the bedroom and headed in the direction of the kitchen, hoping that some refreshment or solid food would lend her strength enough to face the inevitable conversations. Before she made it down the hall she was confronted abruptly by the young house maid, Patrice. The girl rarely spoke to herself or Raoul, but Christine had caught her listening at the door sometimes when Erik was playing his music. She was, as Christine understood it, Henriette’s niece, and a diligent worker to be sure. 

And so it was a surprise when Patrice reached out a hand to stop her, calling out in an urgent whisper, “Madame!”

Christine startled at the sound. “What is it?”

“Forgive me, but a messenger came to the door early this morning--it was still dark--and he left this. He said I should give it to the lady of the house when she’s alone.”

Patrice held a plain white envelope, the seal still intact, and placed it in Christine’s hand as though she was glad to be rid of it. Christine thanked her, and the girl bowed her head, taking her leave.

Puzzling over the letter, Christine inspected the seal, and found it was so plain as to be unremarkable. There was no name upon the paper to indicate sender or recipient, a curious anonymity. She couldn’t think of anything it might contain that couldn’t be shared with Erik or Raoul, but Patrice’s recounting of the instruction-- _when she’s alone_ \--had sounded grave. 

Christine stepped into the parlour, closing the door quietly behind her. She slid her finger under the seal, breaking it, and unfolded the paper. The curtains hadn’t been drawn yet, so she squinted at the neat handwriting in the low morning light, but her eyes widened as she read. 

_Madame de Chagny,_

_I am compelled to inform you of a fact that has recently come to my attention. Some weeks ago you were seen attending the opera by an acquaintance of mine. This fact was not surprising as I, and indeed many people, are aware you once made your living singing in such a place. Of more interest to my acquaintance, and indeed myself, is the fact that you were accompanied that evening by a man whose identity is unknown, but who was most certainly not your husband. What’s more, the two of you shared a private box and, it appears, made some attempt to avoid detection as you left._

_It would seem to me that the de Chagny name is in danger of becoming tangled in a scandal from which it might not fully recover._

_My advice to a family in such a predicament would be to shore up their standing in advance, in hopes that such damning facts should never see the light of day. The happy occasion of a marriage can do wonders to quash rumors, especially in cases concerning a groom of some considerable rank. If you find yourself in a position to ensure such a thing, I would recommend--for both your own sake and that of your blissfully naive husband--that you seize such an opportunity without delay._

_Yours in Advisement,  
M.R._

At the mention of the opera, her breath quickened and an acrid wave, like bile, rose in her chest. She had to read over the last paragraph three times to understand what its author expected of her, her eyes constantly darting back to the word “scandal” like she was drawn to it. Like it was drawn to her.

She overturned the memory of that evening in her mind with pangs of embarrassment for how eager she’d been. Erik had been hesitant, but she took him anyway, hoping that something normal, something familiar, might be good for both of them. Raoul, in his optimism, hadn’t considered the danger. Christine was reckless, she’d let herself be seen. In the private box they had--she had--no. She played it over in her head, again and again, and it was not possible that anyone had seen that indiscretion--but _why_ hadn’t she been more cautious? Made more of an effort to hide her identity--to hide _Erik’s_?

_Because you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong_ , said a chiding voice in her head. But was it wrong? Was it adultery? Had she deluded herself with lust and selfishness, and finally found herself on the cusp of dragging Raoul down with her--of exposing Erik, now, of all times, when the only crime he was guilty of since leaving Paris was loving a woman who wouldn’t give over all of herself?

She stared at the signature a long while, the initials M.R. written with a haughty flourish, and on this point at least there was little doubt in her mind. As far as Christine knew, the man who was courting Roseline hadn’t bothered her since his meeting with her brothers, but it seemed now he was taking a new tack. 

She took a breath and tucked the folded letter into her dressing gown. Christine had been so preoccupied with her own secret she'd lost sight of the larger one, the secret kept between the three of them, and now all of it was at risk. Straightening her posture, she went back into the hallway.

The house was still so quiet. Patrice was no doubt busying herself in one of the other rooms, and the cook must be preparing the kitchen for breakfast by now, but the halls were empty, and no sound reached Christine's ears but her own breathing and the rushing pulse of her anxious heart.

Her stomach gurgled. She had gone to bed on a nearly empty stomach, and the sleep she did get wasn't especially restful, which her body sought to remind her. 

Christine went to the kitchen and asked the cook--Henriette's husband, an older man with a weathered, friendly face--for a slice of bread.

"Just the bread, madame?"

She nodded, feeling as though her voice might fail her, and he cut a hearty slice, setting it in a napkin and handing it to her. He seemed to study her a moment, and then, "I can make a ginger root tea that does wonders for nausea, Madame. Henny swore by it when she was carrying our first."

The kind offer made Christine's stomach drop. So the whole house knew, then. It shouldn't surprise her; Henriette had almost certainly heard the revelation at dinner, and why would she keep it from her husband? 

"I'm not feeling--" she stopped herself, sighing. "Ginger tea sounds lovely. Thank you, Michel." 

She sat on a stool at the counter, the bustling of Michel's morning preparations distracting enough that she didn't sink too far into herself as she tore off small bites of bread and sipped at her tea. She couldn't bring out the letter, but she could feel where it nestled in her dressing gown, like a snake coiled and set to bite. 

They had invited Roseline here to support her, and now Christine had given her suitor another avenue to exploit, another snare in which to catch her. She couldn't tell her; it would be too dangerous, and a burden that Roseline didn't deserve. She hated to bring this to Raoul, to illustrate for him once again that marrying her was a liability, but at least, she thought, he might know what to do.

When she finished her bread and tea, Christine thanked Michel again and returned to the hall. She felt marginally better after her meager breakfast, but still she reached out a hand to trace along the wall as she walked, as though she might lose her footing.

She passed by Erik’s door and startled again when it opened. 

Half of his face was hidden by the mask--he was so careful with Roseline in the house--but what she could see stared back at her with a searching intensity. “Christine--” and worry, now. “You seem unwell. Is it--your condition?”

Christine almost wanted to laugh, and might have if it weren't for the sickening dread in her stomach. “No, I--not out here.” She nodded towards his room, and he opened the door to let her in. When he closed it behind her, she pulled out the letter. “It’s this. Patrice gave it to me a few moments ago. Apparently a messenger brought it while we slept.” Her heart still thudded in her chest.

“I heard the knock,” he said absently, taking the letter. “A strange hour for mail delivery.”

He began reading, inhaled sharply as the contents took shape, and when he finished slapped the letter down on his desk without a word. Erik stared down at it, smoothing the lapels of his housecoat--a nervous habit. He looked back up at Christine, as though just remembering her presence.

His face was grim, not meeting her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

His words took the air out of the room. Was it somehow worse than she'd imagined?

She grabbed his hands for something to ground her. "I should never have put you at risk like that, Erik."

He met her eyes finally, confusion staring back at her. "The mistake was mine. To think I could risk upending your life for a night out. To play at being your husband--I should have known that such a thing could not be without terrible cost."

"Play at…" she paused, trying to make sense of the phrase, but it wasn't the priority. "Erik, if this scoundrel, this--sportsman, should learn who you are, it would be ruinous, but I can't let him think I'm the scandalous woman half of Paris believes me to be." She collapsed onto Erik's piano bench, as though she could not remain upright beneath the weight of her guilt. "The woman that, by all rights, I am. Oh--poor Raoul." Tears stung at her eyes. 

"Poor Raoul?" He came to crouch before her, gripping her hands as they shook. "My dear… of what impropriety are you guilty? Do you lie to your good Viscount? To me? Do you not honor the vows you made to him, before God, and is he not made glad by your company? Christine, you've done nothing wrong, and if society disagrees then they are all the poorer for it, not you. Certainly not him."

"His family…"

"Spoiled layabouts who concern themselves with social status more than with the happiness of the siblings they claim to love. You owe them nothing, Christine. And you certainly have not wronged them."

She didn’t know how to believe that, but Erik’s conviction as he said it, the solid reality of him beside her, helped to calm her nerves. Now she was suddenly aware of how terribly she’d slept the night before, how tired she truly was.

She leaned in, resting her forehead on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you shown this to Raoul?”

“No, I was just about to.”

“If you don’t, I won’t mention it to him.”

She lifted her head to look at him, taken aback. “I’m not going to hide it from him!”

“No,” he said, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “I suppose not.”

He did not go with her when she slipped back into the bedroom she shared with Raoul, instead standing up, reading over the letter once more, and returning it with a kiss to her forehead. 

So she crept back to the bed, watching Raoul's peaceful face as he slept, considering whether she should wait until he woke on his own. He wouldn't consider it a kindness, she knew. Raoul liked to face things head on, and Christine didn't know if that was the right approach, but she knew he wouldn't appreciate being kept in the dark, no matter how well intentioned.

She brushed a strand of sandy hair back from his face, and he stirred. Blinking sleepily, he looked up at her with loving eyes and an open smile, and Christine only just managed to keep from wincing.

He rolled over to face her, draping an arm over her waist and pulling her to him. She could tell--she saw him remember the truth he’d learned the night before, felt his hand hover reverently over her belly.

“How are you, darling?”

She blinked back tears, his concern, his sweetness only making it harder to share the contents of the note she held in one trembling hand. “Not well, I fear.”

He sat up at that, a wakefulness like panic overtaking him. “Are you feeling sick again? Henriette could bring you something.” He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. “Are you cold, or feverish?”

“I’m not ill, Raoul. I received a letter, and what it contains is worse than sickness.” She held it out to him, and he took it, squinting at her.

His reaction as he read was not so unlike Erik’s--only more expressive. He was puzzled until the meaning dawned on him, and then it was anger on his face, burning and righteous. 

“I will find him.” Raoul ran a hand through his hair. “I will find this cur and I will tell him exactly what I think of this letter. I will show him he cannot threaten you--cannot threaten us--for the sake of his own failed courtship--with my fists if necessary!”

Christine imagined it--Raoul with his chest puffed out, defending her honor and his own, causing a scene that would only bring more scrutiny to their lives. 

“No!”

“Why on earth not? The man certainly has it coming.”

She took the letter back, clutching it nervously. “And what will you tell him? That the man who accompanied me that evening was my cousin? What if he goes looking for proof, Raoul? What if he senses the lie and sets out to disprove it?”

Raoul shook his head, but his eyes turned down in defeat. 

“What if he learned the truth?” She asked.

“He couldn’t! How--”

“I don’t know, but a man like him must have resources,” she said, and took his hand. “The risk is so great--for us, and--for _him_.” Her voice lowered to a tremulous whisper, “Oh, they could have his head, Raoul.”

He took her in his arms at that, stroking her hair. “It won’t come to that, darling, I--we’ll handle this.”

The space behind her ribs was swimming, swirling with relief that his frustration wasn’t for her, with tumbling pangs of guilt that it should be. It was her folly, her indiscretion.

“At the opera, Erik and I--” she closed her eyes against the sight of her sweet husband staring back, full of trust. “I was careful--it was only in the privacy of the box, but--oh, is it any wonder this man thinks me a harlot?”

“Christine--” Raoul took her shoulders, looking at her squarely until she opened her eyes and returned his gaze. “If you tell me you were careful, I believe you, and even if you weren’t--I don’t care what assumptions were made by this man or his gossiping acquaintance. I only care that he thinks he has some sway over you, and that he intends to exploit it.”

Christine exhaled, realizing she’d only been taking quick, shallow breaths. She let herself fall against Raoul, resting her weight on him, winding her arms around his chest. He held her like that, the beating of his heart against her cheek slowing to a reassuring rhythm that let her pretend, for a time, that her anxieties were unfounded.

\---


	6. Chapter 6

Christine saw little of Erik for the rest of the day. He shut himself in his room, playing his piano and singing fragments in muttering phrases, working, she presumed, on his opera. 

Late in the morning, Roseline had insisted on visiting the small stable Raoul kept. Her brother obliged her and took the three of them on an informal tour. Roseline turned out to be an accomplished rider, even coaxing Christine onto one of the older mares despite Raoul’s concerns.

“Is it safe--in your state, I mean?”

Roseline had rolled her eyes at her brother, brushing him off as she led Christine to a docile brown horse. “She’s not made of porcelain, and since when are you such a worrier? I promise we won’t go faster than a trot, just for you.” And then, turning back to Christine, “Have you really never ridden before?”

“Only once or twice, as a girl, but that was on a neighbor’s horse, before my father and I started traveling, and it didn’t amount to much.”

“Well, we need to fix that! You’ve got your pick here--and I’m sure Raoul will get you one of your own if you take a liking to it.” She smiled back at her brother, innocently. He waved them off, saying he had work to attend to, so Roseline and Christine were left to ride where they pleased through the pasture.

"If you don't ride, dear sister, what is it that fills your days?" Roseline rode one or two paces ahead, as comfortable as if she'd been born to it, guiding Christine's horse at a leisurely clip. Christine adjusted to the gait of the creature, her legs swung over one side of it a little awkwardly, while Roseline sat astride, tapping gently with her heels and clucking with her tongue to bid the both of them forward. 

"Well, what anyone else does, I suppose. I read, I go into town, have tea with other ladies. I sing, of course."

"Do you sing often? With that charming cousin of yours?"

The way she said "charming" gave Christine pause, as though it was a jest, but not so biting as that--almost knowing.

"I do." She worried that she was stepping clumsily into treacherous ground, but Roseline only looked back at her with genuine curiosity. "He's working on a new opera, and I help him with the soprano's parts."

"A new opera? So he's composed before. Anything I'd recognize?" 

"No!" She said, too quickly. "No, his pieces haven't been produced yet--properly, at least, but he has hopes for this one. We both do."

"Would you grace the stage again for it, you think?"

Christine had assumed a new company--ideally the one performing at the Marseille Opera, so Erik might be able to attend--would put on the production. She knew the parts--those Erik had finished at least--like the back of her hand, but she'd never truly imagined singing it for an audience. 

"I don't know," Christine said thoughtfully, and she didn't. "I'd have to discuss it with Raoul, and of course that's assuming the company would want me--"

"Poppycock! This theater would be lucky to have you, and if you bat those eyelashes at my brother he'd be perfectly happy to have you singing every night of the week. I've never seen him so smitten for a woman in my life, which gives you quite the advantage. And besides, you shouldn't have to ask him for permission."

"I don't want to overstep my place, Roseline."

She scoffed, tugging at the reins and bringing her horse about so that they faced one another. "This is exactly what I'm on about when I say marriage makes you boring. If he fell for you as an opera singer, he shouldn't be so shocked that you might continue to be one after he's staked his claim for you. You wouldn't expect it from him if your positions were reversed, would you?"

"Well no, but--"

"But nothing! If you want to sing, you should sing. You owe it to yourself." Roseline paused, petting along the side of her horse's neck as it nibbled the grass beneath them. "What's it about?"

"About?"

"The opera! I hope it's sufficiently grand, especially if it's going to be your second debut."

“I don’t know how much he’d want me to say…” Erik was protective of his work, and it took some convincing for him to let even Christine in on his process. They sang for Raoul, at times, but usually they stuck to songs that were largely finished.

“Surely _something_. I’m not asking for a full synopsis of each act, and I’ll promise not to tell anyone. Just tell me enough that I can be smug about it when my friends are all raving about it after it’s a hit.”

Christine chuckled. “Well, I suppose I can tell you that it’s a re-imagining of Faust.”

Roseline’s eyes seemed to glitter. “Oh! Hellfire and bargains with the devil. Sounds dark.”

“Instead of Faust, the opera follows Marguerite.”

Raising an eyebrow, Roseline slowed her horse so that they were trotting side by side. “Ah, the object of Faust’s infernal affections. Doesn’t he ruin her in the end?”

“Well--” Christine tripped over her words, coughing once to gather her thoughts. “Elements can change in a re-telling, can’t they?”

Roseline pondered this--pondered her. “They can. Color me intrigued.” And then, disarming: “I’ll be expecting an invite for opening night, I hope you know.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged, but it’s not actually finished yet, and we don’t know if anyone will produce it when it is.”

Roseline waved her hand dismissively. “Insignificant details, dear sister.”

They continued to walk winding trails through the pasture until the afternoon, and Christine found her legs nearly buckled when she stepped down onto the ground. 

“Oh!” Roseline said, providing an arm for Christine to hold onto until she found her footing. “That will happen. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting up there until you’re back on the ground, but don’t worry. With a little more practice you’ll get your riding legs soon enough.”

\---

Later, when they'd sat down to supper, Christine noticed the lack of a fourth place-setting. 

"Is Erik not joining us?" she asked Henriette as she passed by with the wine. 

"He said he's feeling unwell, and will take the meal in his room."

"What a pity," said Roseline, and she seemed to mean it.

After supper, Roseline regaled them with more stories from her travels. When Christine and Raoul finally retired for the evening, she thought of checking on Erik, but the hour was late, and she did not hear the tell-tale sound of piano keys or soft singing as she pressed her ear to his door. Sleep did not come easily to him in the best of times, so Christine went to her own bed rather than disturb him. 

In the night, there was a knock, so soft that at first Christine thought she might have dreamt it, but as she blinked awake in the darkness, she heard the rapping again. It was Erik's door, the beats of knuckle on wood quick and quiet. 

Christine looked to Raoul, sleeping soundly, before pushing back the blankets and padding over to the sound. When she opened the door, and dim lamp light flooded from his room, she found Erik's eyes staring back at her, wide and shining like wet glass. He was still in his shirtsleeves and trousers, despite the late hour. Perhaps it was a trick of the low light, but the delicate skin under his eyes looked almost swollen, and Christine brushed her thumb over his cheek.

"Erik, what's wrong?"

"Please," was all he gave in answer, hoarse and choked, like his voice was already spent. He said it again as his arms came up around her, his hands finding the sides of her face and pulling her into a kiss that was timid and searching--like he had been, before.

She kissed him back. His fingers tangled in her hair, tracing the lines of her neck, and she didn't notice he was walking her back until her legs pressed into the mattress, and she dropped onto it, pulling him down with her. He was on her, all around her; his breath, his touch slipping under her chemise, the solid weight of him above her. Over the flood of him, she heard Raoul beginning to stir, a groggy sound to her right. 

Erik moved so that he was beside her on the other side, his weight creating a dip in the mattress that cradled them, the line of his body against hers from foot to the arc of hungry kisses he placed on her throat. His hands tugged at the thin fabric of her chemise, coaxing it up and then mapping the expanse of thigh, hip, stomach. 

His touch slid between her legs, pressing insistently, and she sighed in his ear, rolling her hips into it, and gasping when his fingers slipped into her folds. Erik murmured against her skin, dragging his mouth over her shoulder and circling the sensitive button of flesh under his fingers, almost too hard, too much, but his eyes were still wide, drinking in the sight of her face as her breathing caught. 

It was unlike him, this sudden, unremitting passion. Christine usually sensed his interest before he made it overt--a shift in the air between them, in the way his eyes lingered on her--or she set about stoking that interest herself, but this was--different. He was pleading with her with every touch and utterance, his whole body begging to be near hers, like he had been the first time, and Christine found it worrying and thrilling by turns. 

Raoul reached out to her, his eyes heavy lidded from sleep--or was it burgeoning lust? She wondered if he thought it was a dream, at first, like she did, and wanted to touch her to know it was real. She turned her cheek into his hand, moaning softly against it as Erik let one digit dip inside her, teasing, and pulled back to spread the wetness over her sex.

His fingers were deft and unabating now, as he muttered her name like a chant, with _yes_ and _please, for me_ punctuated throughout. Christine was swimming in the sensation of it, as intoxicated by Erik's presence as she ever was, and by the building desire of Raoul's touch beside her.

"Oh, God--yes--" Christine curled her fist in the front of Erik's shirt like a lifeline, arching her body up into his touch until she reached her crisis, the jolts and waves of it coursing through her belly. When her hips fell back against the bed and her eyes opened again, she found Erik, still rapt, staring at her like he couldn't look away. 

"Erik," she whispered, breathless, returning to herself. "What is it?"

He looked as though he wanted to answer, but instead he squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face just under her jaw, her hair shrouding him as he pressed uneven kisses to her neck. 

His erection pressed into her hip, through his trousers, grinding through the press of their bodies in some instinctual, seeking way. It sounded like a plea when he asked, "Let me have you, tonight--just--please, Christine?"

_Tonight_? She didn't understand his uncertainty, but his skin on hers was hot, it was licks of fire--electric, and Christine shuddered at the thought of him inside her. "Of course," she said, kissing his mouth, the jagged flesh of his cheek, his neck. "Yes, yes," and she was shifting until she was over him, her knees on either side of his thighs. If he was still so unsure she wanted him, she would prove it in no uncertain terms.

Christine opened his trousers and tugged them down, just above the knee. His erection emerged, stiff and heavy, and she gripped it in one hand, sliding up the length as Erik’s eyes fell shut. She let him go, resting her palms on his chest and aligning their hips so that--there it was, the familiar heat of his cock slipping over her folds, the tip finding her entrance as she lowered herself, taking him inside with a slow, maddeningly measured slide. 

His hands found her hips, and he looked up at her like he wanted to take it all in at once, to absorb her into him. 

She pulled her chemise off over her head, and she could feel the surge of his arousal inside her, his length growing impossibly more rigid, making her gasp when she rolled her hips against it. The muscles in her legs burned from her time in the saddle that morning, but it was nothing against the urge to chase that burning pleasure at the core of her.

Raoul watched them intently now, propped up on one side, his free hand kneading his own arousal through his nightclothes. 

"Darling," Christine breathed, "come here.”

Raoul crawled to her, to both of them, on hands and knees over the mattress. “Can I?” he asked, rising behind her, but not touching--yet.

Christine let herself fall back against him, her hips still rolling over Erik’s. She reached behind her to pull Raoul flush to her back, his manhood stiff against her backside. Her head lolled onto his shoulder and she turned to his cheek, moaning, “ _yes_ ,” and Raoul’s hands were on her now. They held her breasts, massaging and lightly pinching one nipple, coaxing a high, breathy sound from Christine’s throat. She kept riding Erik, and he gripped her hips almost bruisingly tight. 

For the seconds, minutes, days that Christine existed between the two of them, their hungry, fevered caresses and thrusts and moans, she couldn’t find room for the anxiety that had plagued her in the morning--in these last several weeks. Raoul’s touch moved down, his fingers working over the sensitive flesh within her folds as Erik entered her with a rising, percussive rhythm, and Christine found her voice rising into nothingness, choked off by the sting of blissful, racking pleasure that overtook her.

She collapsed forward onto Erik's chest, shuddering through the aftershocks, clinging to him as his hips kept pumping, tireless. He found the sides of her face again, his fingers threading through the hair behind her ears. He drew her up so that their mouths nearly touched, but he only stared at her, panting. 

"Let me--oh please, let me see you--"

Christine wrapped her hand around one of his wrists, squeezing. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." 

His eyes shut in a grimace of pained relief, like agony, and Erik stiffened under her, pressing his forehead to hers as he came.

Christine let herself rest on his chest for a long moment, the two of them catching their breath as Raoul shifted from where he knelt between Erik's knees. Erik, so terribly briefly, seemed content, the thudding of his heart slowing underneath her. Christine finally rolled onto the bed, feeling as though her limbs had been wrung like wet cloth, and glanced to her husband. 

Raoul sat back on his heels, the tension in his body not quite reaching his face. To her side, Erik began pulling up his trousers, and Christine thought for a moment he might leave, rushing out as quickly as he'd entered.

Instead, Erik crossed the space between them and took Raoul by the collar of his nightshirt. Crowding him against the headboard, he straddled one of Raoul's legs and pinned him in place. One hand loosed its grip on the nightshirt and dropped to the erection that tented the thin fabric. 

Raoul hissed at the contact, his hips jumping. 

"Erik--oh God!" His words broke off as Erik squeezed, and Raoul's fingers clutched at the sheets. 

Erik's hand--the one holding Raoul in place--traveled up, not pausing at the neck, like Christine and perhaps Raoul himself might have expected, but to the side of his face, a thumb tracing the dip just over his chin and then--his lips. Raoul, already panting from the attention between his legs, did not resist the digit when it slipped inside, past his teeth, passing over his tongue in an experimental swipe. He moaned when Erik pressed in deeper, an unabashed, needful sound. 

Erik, for his part, seemed transfixed by the sight--for which Christine could not blame him--but soon regained some of his composure and released his grip on Raoul's straining manhood, only to push his nightshirt up and out of the way. It was skin on skin now, the flesh of Erik's hand around the flesh of Raoul's cock, and Christine was enraptured. He stroked the length, and Raoul’s eyes shut, his mouth falling open. 

“You’re both,” Erik whispered, his voice still ragged, breaking, “so beautiful, I don’t--” His head fell heavy on Raoul’s chest, his fist still pumping, and Raoul let out a startled, uneven sound that leveled into a groan as Erik’s pace became more punishing. Erik’s other hand clutched Raoul’s shoulder, fingertips pressing into the flesh, undoubtedly leaving little crescents of red under his short nails. The wetness was back in Erik’s eyes, dabbed away by the press of Raoul’s nightshirt against his cheek, and Christine wanted to understand, wanted to comfort him, but she could not fathom--or perhaps she was afraid to intercede, to disturb this delicate fever pitch.

Erik shifted, his body moving down the mattress, parting Raoul’s legs to accommodate him. His face reached that cock, tumescent and crimson in the low light. Erik’s glassy eyes shown with something flickering, like flame, as he glanced up at Raoul and lowered his mouth on the length. Raoul balled his fists in the sheets, the sound he made guttural. 

“Oh, Erik--oh yes--”

Wet sounds rose over labored breathing, and Erik’s mouth followed the strokes of his hand with a building confidence. He hummed from deep in his chest, and Raoul was rendered senseless, helpless.

“I--I--Oh _God_ \--” 

Erik raised his head, lamplight glinting off his spit-slicked, uneven mouth, off the straining cock in his grasp. Another stroke and Raoul’s release spilled over his stomach, Erik’s jaw, and that mercilessly gripping hand.

In a wave over his body, Raoul’s drum-tight tension collapsed like a curtain cut from its frame, and he fell back against the headboard, panting. Erik sat up, looking away from both of them a moment, gathering his thoughts or composure or breath, and pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He wiped at his jaw, his hand, and finally cleaned away the evidence of Raoul’s release from his skin. Raoul blinked blearily at him, a reticent hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“I should go,” said Erik, drawing backward on his knees, folding the soiled handkerchief and tucking it back in his pocket. 

“Absolutely not.” Christine rose from where she was reclining and took Erik by the arm, pulling him back to the middle of the bed. “Stay with us.”

“It’s not wise…” he said, the conviction draining from his words as he spoke. 

“Stay,” she said, and curled one leg over his as his back met the mattress. 

\---


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the night

She wasn’t worried, at first, when she realized Erik was gone. The room was dark, and the sheets where he had lain between Raoul and herself were cool to the touch, but Erik did not always sleep through the night, instead taking his rest whenever it seemed to catch up to him, whatever the hour.

She turned over, squinting at an unfamiliar shadow on the bedside table. Curiosity brought her mind to full wakefulness, and she reached out to touch the mysterious object. It was a folder, the kind that Erik used to hold his compositions once they were complete. Christine pushed back the blanket, sitting up slowly, so as not to disturb Raoul, and retrieved a lamp. 

Under the low light, she opened the folder and began to read. The music was familiar, and she could hear it in her mind as her eyes travelled down the pages. She could feel the swells of a crescendo in her chest, the fragile notes in her throat. Catching her off her guard, tears began forming, falling down her cheeks, dropping onto the paper and smearing one note, another. Christine sniffed, and as she reached the end Raoul shifted beside her. 

“Christine?” he asked, his voice low with sleep. “What is it?”

“He changed it,” she said, and turned to Raoul. “He changed the opera. Marguerite doesn’t accept the bargain, she stays true to her love, and Faust betrays Mephistopheles in the end.” She closed the folder, placing it on the bed.

Raoul stared up at her, his eyebrows coming together. “That’s… good?”

Christine wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling again and feeling suddenly silly. Apparently Erik’s music could speak to her even through page and ink. “I think so.”

“Then I look forward to hearing it… preferably in the morning.” 

She smiled at him, lifting one corner of the blanket and crawling back into bed so that her body was flush with his. "Did Erik seem--strange, tonight?"

Raoul nestled his face against the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "He's generally a little strange, darling."

She huffed, fondly. "No, I mean. He seemed troubled."

"It's been a tumultuous few days. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been feeling a little at odds myself."

Christine put her hand on his where it draped over her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

He shifted suddenly behind her, lifting his head. "Darling, that's not--I'm worried about _you_. Get some rest, and I'm sure we'll all be feeling better in the morning." 

Christine closed her eyes, curling into herself, but drawing his arm around her. She had almost dozed off, Raoul's light, untroubled breathing a comfort against her worries, when a sound--like heavy furniture dragged over floorboards--came from the hall.

"Raoul!" She whispered, and turned to wake him. 

He made a groggy, disgruntled sound, blinking up at her.

"Can you hear that?"

He listened, and the sound continued, his face turning from bleary curiosity to focused concern. "What the devil?" he asked and threw back the blankets, on his feet and straightening his nightshirt in the space of a breath. "I'll find out, don't fret." He fumbled with the lamp near the bed, re-lighting it and holding it up to see by. 

As he reached the door, Christine found her chemise, slipping it back on. She followed after him, taking in the sight he beheld, illuminated by the lamp, as Raoul asked, incredulous, "What are you doing?"

Erik, holding up one end of a large trunk, lifted his head, so caught up in his own machinations that he hadn’t heard the door open. Surprise flitted over his features, half covered by his flesh-toned mask and shadowed by a wide brimmed hat, but his eyes narrowed with painful resolve.

\---

"What are you doing?"

Erik’s heart pounded at their arrival, his blood a deafening rush in his ears. He had lingered too long, had let himself bask in the warmth of their bed for half the night instead of doing what he must, and now Christine and Raoul--in their infinite, misguided charity--might try to stop him.

He looked at Christine and said, "I’ve upended your life, and there is only one way to fix it. I've taken advantage of your kindness too long. You deserve to have your proper family, one without ugly secrets. Let me do you this kindness in return, and leave you to it."

Christine stepped in front of her husband. “So you’re leaving in the dead of night? You planned to disappear on us without warning?”

“I can return when the child comes. If it’s like--If there’s anything wrong, I will take it. You can pay a midwife to say it was stillborn, and I will care for the poor creature on my own. I won’t pass this curse on to you, Christine.”

Anger flashed in her eyes, and of course she would be bitter that Erik might have poisoned her womb by his own recklessness. Leaving her with a child that by all rights should be the creation of two beautiful parents, flawless and healthy and loved, who might instead become something wretched, growing in her belly like a sickness.

“You think I would let you--let you take it? The baby?”

“It would be a mercy to you, and to me. If I can do this I might find some solace in imagining that you don’t resent my part in your life--if I can free you from this.”

Angry tears welled in her eyes. “How little you must think of me. Erik, I don't understand… do you want to leave?"

"The thought of it is a knife carving my heart from my chest, but the possibility that I might stifle your happiness would surely finish the job."

“Stifle my… what on earth are you talking about?”

Erik turned to Raoul now with a nauseating hope that he might see reason. “I can rid you of this Marquis. I can free you, Christine, your sister…” His fist clenched at his side. “But I can’t be with you, after. I can’t wrap you up in it… make you culpable in my sins, again.” 

Christine’s eyes went wide, a fear she hadn’t known these last peaceful months resurrecting on her face, and this is why he’d wanted to leave in the night. He didn’t want to frighten her anymore, ever again, but more than that he had to protect her, from his monstrosity and with it, if he must.

Raoul stepped forward, stern-faced, setting the lamp on a table beside the door. He approached Erik, removing his hat, his mask, and Erik stood staring at him, all but stunned by the proximity and the sudden, decisive touch. 

"My god, you're a fool," Raoul said, registering the surprise on Erik’s face. Then he cupped the back of Erik’s head, tipped his chin up, and kissed him. His mouth was softer than Erik would have guessed, and opened against his like something obvious, inevitable, tasting familiar and foreign at once. Erik’s eyes closed despite his shock--or perhaps because of it--and his hands came to rest over Raoul’s forearms, as though to confirm the owner of the solid, gentle grip at the back of his neck. 

Finally pulling their mouths apart, Raoul spoke softly, still holding Erik close. “Why are you so convinced our happiness relies on your absence, when we’ve done our level best to prove the opposite?”

“Raoul,” Erik murmured, disbelieving. "You--you both want me to stay?" 

“Why would you leave?” asked Raoul, not waiting for an answer. “So we can live a life condoned by the gentlemen and ladies that would begrudge our contentment? Condoned by men who take mistresses, by the wives who resent them, and the rest who live suffocating, unhappy lives? I don’t care what they would have us do, and I dare say I speak for both of us when I say it.”

The reasons to leave--compelling, irrefutable, and sickening truths a moment ago--seemed distant now, so far from this immediacy, this visceral reality. “I thought,” he began, and stepped back, looking past Raoul to Christine. “The letter. It frightened you, Christine. It was my fault.” 

“No, Erik…” She took his hand in both of hers, protective. 

He continued, words pouring from him now. “If it weren’t for me these rumors would not have plagued you in the first place, and my presence only risks them growing worse. You--” he closed his eyes now, against the truth that turned in his gut. “You were upset when we learned you were with child, and--I’m sorry! I should have been careful. If I were a better man I would not have risked--”

"You think I would not want the child if it was yours?"

Erik stared, uncomprehending. Perhaps she had not considered it, the horrific possibility. Perhaps she could not admit it even to herself. “I could not imagine a reason for your doubts except the possibility that I--to be honest, I still cannot imagine one." 

“Erik,” Christine sighed. She let his hand go and went to the narrow bench near the door, sitting and gesturing for him and Raoul to join her. 

“You know my mother died when I was young.”

“Yes, darling,” said Raoul, sympathy creasing the corners of his eyes. 

When she spoke, it wasn’t to either of them, not directly. She stared ahead, her eyes downcast, and took noticeable effort to steady her voice. “It was--She was giving birth to what was to be my younger brother. She and my father were so happy. I’d been asking for a companion nearly since I could speak, and even if they hardly had the money for it, they wanted more children--they had so much love to give them, and--my mother went to a lying-in hospital. I was all of seven years old, but allowed to stay by her side, while father was shooed from the room to wait with the other men.”

Christine closed her eyes, and Erik reached for her hand, squeezing it. 

“The doctors, they hardly paid her any mind, knowing she’d had one child already, and assumed their attention should be on the new mothers. When the nurse by her side began to realize something was wrong, they could only do so much, and--” a sob broke through her words. “The blood soaked through the sheets, and my mother grew so horribly, hauntingly pale. She passed before she could even lay eyes on my brother, and he didn’t make it through the night.”

Raoul’s eyes shined in the low light. He cupped her face, a tear rolling over his cheek to match hers. “Oh darling, I didn’t realize--I’m sorry.”

Erik watched them, his heart cracking open for her, wanting to gather Christine up, shrouded until the horror of it couldn’t reach her. 

He pressed her hand to the side of his face. “Oh Christine, I thought, I thought--”

“I know, Erik.”

“I wish it had been that. I don’t--I don’t know how to protect you from this.”

“You can’t, just--let me be frightened. Let me be honest with you--both of you. That’s all I want.”

“You do want the baby?” asked Raoul, doubtful. Hopeful.

“I do, oh--please believe that I do! It just scares me. I have awful dreams, filled with blood and despair, but I want to meet the child--” she took Raoul’s hand, and Erik’s, squeezing both and bringing them together. “Ours. I want all of us to meet it.”

Christine did shed more tears, but she was undeniably lighter now. She smiled at Erik, and he felt something rent in his chest begin to fuse again, like a bone, cracked apart in these last weeks and finally set right. Raoul held Erik’s hand over her lap, and the three of them sat with tear-streaked cheeks, breathing in relief that seemed to permeate the air around them.

Erik was only a second--a fraction--too slow to pull his hand from Raoul’s when Roseline opened the door to her room, gazing down at them curiously.

“Sister!” Raoul cried, somewhat belated. 

“Are you three quite done making a commotion? Or should I give up on a full night’s sleep now and be done with it?”

Roseline took in the sight of them, Raoul and Christine in their nightclothes without so much as a dressing gown for modesty’s sake, and Erik in his suit--naked without the mask. 

“I’m sorry, we can--that is, Raoul and I are--Erik--”

Roseline narrowed her eyes. “He’s not your cousin, is he?”

Raoul opened his mouth to refute it, but Christine exhaled and placed a hand on his leg. “No, he isn’t.”

Roseline’s smile was a little wicked, but somehow not unkind. “And here I thought I was the only proper deviant in the family.”

\---


	8. Chapter 8

In ensuing weeks, Erik busied himself with his opera, adjusting and re-writing, singing parts and pieces with Christine whenever he could steal her company away from Raoul’s sister. The re-worked version he’d produced in a fevered rush--thinking the night he gave it to her would be their last together--was good, he wasn’t too humble to admit, but now that it seemed he had time--precious and copious at once!--his desire was only to make it perfect by his own judgement and, he hoped, hers. 

So he worked, and at night he slept in a bed that felt more like his own each time he woke to find Christine curled around him, or Raoul’s hair tickling under his nose. Christine would have dreams, some nights, and wake with a start, or worse, begin whimpering even as she slept, at which point he and Raoul would hold her, whispering soft words until she again drifted off. The nightmares had calmed considerably after a fortnight, and soon the most common disturbance involved an uneven distribution of blankets or limbs tangling uncomfortably, which struck Erik as an acceptable price for the pleasing lullaby of their breathing beside him.

He would still sometimes wake in the night, struck by some idea, some tune that had been eluding him, and he would creep from the bed to his room, working until sleep claimed him again, or the sun rose and he rejoined the waking world of the house. 

Roseline stayed with them just longer than a month, and Erik found her presence not nearly so invasive as he feared. After that night in the hall, secrets laid as bare as they could be, it was easier--or perhaps that wasn’t the word. It was a feeling not unlike that fleeting happiness at the Opéra de Marseille, the thrill of kissing Christine on her cheek before leaving a room, of Raoul’s hand lingering on his back when they stood side by side, and someone to see it, to note the affection and familiarity and not stare back in shock or derision. 

After some prying, Roseline had learned of the note from the Marquis de Rothe and taken it upon herself to write him letters of her own. She feigned ignorance of his own anonymous correspondence, instead implying that her dear sister-in-law had recommended she write him--after all, she was a living example of matrimonial bliss, and Roseline took her counsel quite seriously. 

When Christine expressed concern that Roseline might feel pressured to entangle herself further with such a repugnant man, she only laughed in reply, maintaining that if he had accepted her refusal in the first place, she would have left him to his own devices, but now she was “entitled to a little fun at his expense.”

It was in this climate of peace and gaiety, near the end of Roseline’s stay, that Erik learned they would be hosting yet another visitor, that very afternoon, and he could not help but find the news distressing. He found the lure of living honestly too enticing, while his instinct to hide away threatened to rend him in two. More people was more risk, and what if he’d grown too comfortable these last few weeks? What if they all had, or Roseline was unaware how dire their secrets truly were--the woman loved to talk!

“Who is this visitor?” Erik ventured.

“Oh, a friend. No one to worry about,” Raoul said with an almost theatrical nonchalance. 

Erik’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t yet know what to make of Raoul’s--what? Playfulness?

“All the same, I shall keep to my rooms,” he said, because it was the least measure of security he might impose, and Raoul only smiled and shook his head.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

Christine was no help when he inquired, only offering that he might be “better off leaving the schemes and plots to someone else for a change,” which left Erik feeling not unlike a rat surrounded by cats on one side, and well-baited traps on another. 

When the carriage arrived, Erik did retreat to his room despite the assurances. From the hall he soon heard voices--familiar ones, although hearing them here, now, made him feel out of time. 

There was a knock, and then the turning of the knob, and Raoul waved their guest--guests, it turned out, inside.

“Madame Giry,” he said, the name escaping Erik’s lips of its own accord. “And Meg, isn’t it?”

The younger girl, blonde and dressed more properly than he had perhaps ever seen her, bowed slightly, her eyes sparkling with unhidden fascination. “Yes, Monsieur,” she chirped in that high, cherubic voice of hers, now a contrast with the figure she made in her handsome, well-fitted dress, cut short at the ankle for walking. 

“O.G.,” said the Madame, her own dress its usual stark black, her back straight as the cane she still carried. Erik did not think he mistook a hint of rare softness in her face as she said, “I hear you prefer Erik now.”

“To that point,” interjected Raoul, “If we might discuss something with Madame Giry in private, Roseline, would you take Meg into the parlour and entertain her for a few minutes? We shan’t keep you waiting long.” 

So focused on the visitors from their shared past, Erik had hardly noticed Christine and Roseline trailing after them, but now Roseline took Meg’s hand in the friendliest manner, never breaking her gaze from the young Giry as she said, “take all the time you need, brother,” and led her out the door. Christine came to stand by Raoul’s side, some anticipation showing in the focus of her eyes, the color in her cheeks, and Erik found his trepidation switched for something else, like a magic trick. He wasn’t uneasy anymore, but still his heart thrummed in his chest.

“It seems you’ve done well for yourself,” said the elder Giry, taking in the room, the fine furniture and the piano that sat at its center. She seemed to evaluate Erik as well, his mask of matte cream, his black suit--not the formal tails of his time in the opera house, but a suit like a gentleman might wear when expecting a guest. 

Erik looked away from her, attempting to imagine the space as she saw it. “Less square footage than I’m accustomed to, but it suits my needs well enough.” He glanced back, and saw something that was not quite a smile pulling at the straight line of her mouth. 

She raised an eyebrow. “I am… glad to hear it.”

Madame Giry was not a woman to be trifled with. She maintained a commanding presence at the most trying of times, but beneath that was a compassion that might go unrecognized by a man of quicker judgement. She was among the few living people who knew Erik’s crimes, his sins, while knowing also his past, some of it at least, and what he might have been, and she--by some unknowable arithmetic--found that the former did not so completely outweigh the latter. 

He had repaid her by disappearing. Their arrangement had been a tenuous one, rarely discussed in person, and motivated--so far as Erik could tell--by some combination of pity, fear, and self interest on her part, but she had shown him more loyalty than he was owed. So he let her wash her hands of him and believed she would be all too happy to oblige, after everything.

But instead she stood before him now, this facet of his old life stuck suddenly out of place within the new, and pulled an envelope from a pocket in her skirts.

"Some time ago, almost four weeks now, Monsieur le Vicomte sent me a most curious correspondence, containing an even more curious request."

Erik looked to Raoul, who stood and watched the exchange with a pleased smile that betrayed very little. 

“Following the letter’s instruction, I made some adjustments to the employment records of the Opera Populaire. It seems the orchestra had been missing one of its musicians, and I was to add him in, so that anyone looking to confirm his presence would find everything in good order.”

Madame Giry still held the envelope, grasping it in her hand like a talisman as she spoke.

“There were more requests, all in a similar vein, if not more complicated, but with some assistance from a few acquaintances--one of whom seemed, to my surprise, to know you--I was able to obtain this," and she handed over the envelope.

Erik took it, his mind clouded and swirling with her words. Opening it, he found inside an assortment of documents, records and identifications featuring prominent official seals and signatures, each bearing one similarity between them: a name.

_Erik Daaé_. His name, new and old at once, his freedom and the bonds that gladly held him, made into truth with ink and parchment.

He looked up to find Christine staring back at him, searching, and then smiling with an endearing satisfaction. Raoul, at her side, took her hand, squeezing it and meeting Erik's eyes with a heartfelt--and not a little boastful--gaze. 

“You--you did this for me?” 

“Monsieur le Vicomte directed and financed the endeavor. There was a gentleman--wouldn’t give his name, but he said he knew you during your employ with the Shah of Persia, and he provided a great deal of what you see before you, with the stipulation that I assure him, to the best of my knowledge, that you were no longer a grave danger to wayward sopranos, or anyone else for that matter.”

The reminders of the past beat against him like waves, first Giry, and now the Daroga--a man he hadn’t seen in many years, who had almost been a friend, before the possibility of friendship had been ripped from him, locked away and mocking him from the other side of cage bars. Erik shook his head, blinking away his disbelief. He had helped her--helped Erik, they all--

“Christine--” he said suddenly, looking up from the documents again to find her radiant, smiling face. “You gave me your name.”

Christine went to him, resting her hand on his forearm. “I want the name Daaé to keep its association with beautiful music. I want people to know that we are tied together, even if they can’t know precisely how. I hope you don’t mind us not telling you.”

Erik could not find words, so he brought his hand up to trace over her cheek, curl around her ear, and he kissed her. He didn’t concern himself with Madame Giry beside them, and he gripped Christine tight, hoping the press of his mouth would impart the gratitude, the all-consuming love he felt in the moment, that he felt for her all the time. Christine made a surprised sound, but brought her arms around him, and he imagined that perhaps--perhaps she understood.

When they parted, Erik found Madame Giry politely averting her eyes. As she looked back, sensing an end to the impropriety, Erik took her hand and bowed to her. “Thank you, truly,” he said, and she looked as satisfied as he suspected she could. 

Finally his eyes fell on Raoul, standing back, placid but seemingly pleased, and Erik approached him. He only said, “Vicomte…” and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face against Raoul’s neck and pulling them together. Raoul patted him fondly, and squeezed him in return.

“Are you finally convinced we’re not trying to be rid of you?”

Erik stepped back, straightening his jacket and compulsively smoothing his wig. “For the moment, yes, I think so.”

When the four of them retired to the parlour, they found Meg utterly engrossed by one of Roseline’s stories, as Roseline held her hand between them and leaned in close, her delivery of the tale an uncharacteristic whisper that necessitated a close proximity. Meg startled at the door, and Roseline turned, smiling. “Done already?” she asked, and leaned back from Meg with some hesitation. 

Raoul said their business was concluded, and so the rest of the evening was spent as a social visit between old friends, and Erik found himself content to merely listen for much of it.

The following week, a dinner invitation was extended to Phillipe de Chagny, during which Raoul took it upon himself to produce the letter sent to Christine by the Marquis de Rothe, threatening scandal for the crime of attending the opera with her dear cousin, as well as a few of the more unsavory letters Roseline had managed to earn from the Marquis during their brief correspondence. Phillipe, in the face of this bald-faced insult, did not take much convincing that this Marquis was perhaps not the good match he believed, and, as apology--once met with the formidable force of both Roseline and Raoul at a common purpose--agreed to pull from Roseline’s dowry and increase her yearly stipend, so that she might live more comfortably with or without a husband. 

When Roseline returned to Paris, she insisted that Meg and her mother travel with her, making grand promises of parties and finery to the younger Giry as they embarked. 

Raoul, Christine, and Erik waved them off, eventually returning to the house and sitting down to tea, peaceful and quiet and, by Erik’s measure, perfect.

\---

-Epilogue-

Erik sat at his piano, not playing, for fear that the sound would drown out any noise, any hint, from the next room. Raoul paced, occasionally stopping to listen, or to take off his jacket, only to put it on again a few moments later. They both fidgeted in their own way, and both froze each time Christine’s voice--pained and animal--cried out, the soothing calm of Henriette’s steady voice always following shortly after, encouraging and guiding her along. 

It seemed to last an impossibly long time, and Erik found the sound--Christine’s suffering, and him with no means to help her--nearly impossible to bear. Raoul, so far as he could tell, was in the same predicament, and so they stayed suspended in their agitation until, finally, Christine’s cries fell away, as did Henriette’s gentle assurances, and they were replaced with the shrill, piercing, welcome cry of an infant. 

Raoul and Erik looked at one another, both standing frozen as the sound travelled from the next room, and with a wave of triumph, they embraced, the child’s cries fading from their ears but echoing with perfect clarity in their minds. 

Only a few weeks ago, Erik and Christine had been meeting with the managers of the Opéra de Marseille, discussing a debut for his work--finally finished--and her return to the stage. It was agreed that both would take place at the beginning of the next season, giving Christine ample time to acclimate to motherhood and the theater a chance to finish out the existing schedule of productions. 

Before long, Madame Giry came through the door to Erik’s room, where he and Raoul waited. She had been visiting since it was clear that the delivery would be imminent, with Roseline and Meg--now near-constant travelling companions--due to arrive within the week. 

“Mother and child are doing well. Henriette’s gone off to prepare the washing. You can see them now.” 

Raoul took off his jacket--definitively now--and Erik hesitated a moment, fetching a plain mask and slipping it on before the two of them stepped into the room.

Christine sat up in bed, the blankets pulled to her waist. Her forehead shined with sweat, but through her exhaustion she smiled rapturously down at the bundle in her arms. Raoul reached her first, gazing down at the infant, his face alight. 

One impossibly tiny hand emerged from the bundle, and Raoul held it delicately between two fingers, letting out the smallest gasp when it squeezed him back. Erik moved to stand beside him, and then he saw the child properly, its plump, red face scrunched and sour looking and so beautiful he could weep.

Christine gazed up at Erik now, her face open and blissful until a crease of concern crossed her forehead.

"Why are you wearing that? It's only us."

Erik stared back a moment, mute, and then his racing mind caught up to what she was asking. 

"I don't… want to scare the child."

Christine sighed, finding it in herself to be exasperated with him despite her own arduous evening. "What would she have to be frightened of in the face of someone who loves her? Raoul, would you--my hands are full."

Taking her meaning, Raoul turned and slid the mask from Erik's face as though he were brushing a piece of harmless debris from his jacket. The motion was smooth until Raoul looked suddenly back to Christine.

"Her?" 

Christine nodded, a smile once again rounding her cheeks and creasing the corners of her eyes, and Raoul returned it, staring down and the infant anew, radiating pride. 

"I was thinking we could call her Elissa."

"A queen of Carthage," Erik said, finally reaching out a tentative hand to touch the impossibly soft dusting of hair over the baby's head. "Romantic, but strong at heart. Unwavering. In--" he looked down, a little sheepish. "In the opera, at least."

"That was my thinking." She looked at each of them. "Do you like it?"

"Elissa…" said Raoul, pushing a curl back from Christine's face and leaving his thumb to brush over her cheek as he gazed down at the softly breathing bundle. "I think it's a fine name." 

"I love it," Erik said, and he meant the name, but he also meant the child, miraculous and whole, and Christine, who had braved her fear so that the three of them could be here, now, and Raoul, providing the child a promise of safety, for standing by them and offering a steadiness upon which Erik, Christine, and now their new Elissa could rely. 

"Do you want to hold her?" Christine again addressed both of them, and Raoul caught Erik off guard by gesturing to him. 

"I don't--I've never--"

"Erik, it's all right. Come, sit next to me." 

He did as she asked, and in a motion that was, he knew, careful and measured and yet still felt distressingly fast, she placed the small--so unreasonably small--bundle in his arms. The words she spoke caught up with him a moment later.

"Henriette has her wrapped up quite securely, so all you need to do is cradle her little head at the bend in your arm--yes, just like that."

And just as easily as that, he held the infant, who was cooing somewhat disgruntledly at all the jostling, but soon settled, calm again, and he was finally overcome. Elissa's face blurred as the tears formed, and Christine's arm came around his shoulder. 

"I think she likes you." She said.

\---

The following year, Raoul and Erik, accompanied, as promised, by Roseline and Meg Giry, sat in an opera box. Henriette was watching Elissa for the evening, rare though it was that all of her parents found themselves engaged on the same night. But the occasion was a special one. It was the first performance of Erik's _Marguerite_ , and soon the curtain would open on Christine Daaé, and her return, for a limited engagement, to the stage.

Christine was preparing, somewhere backstage, Erik knew, possibly warming up her voice with Patrice, their former maid, who had been taken on as a flautist months ago, after Christine had mentioned to Erik that she might be interested in music lessons. He had tried her on violin, piano, and a few other instruments, but found that the flute suited her best, which was just as well, as this particular opera house was still sorely lacking any robustness in its woodwinds. 

When the show began, Christine was resplendent, like a flawless gem set among polished stones. She sang the titular role, and in this production Marguerite was not ruined, nor was her love of the sweet Siebel. The two of them, instead bolstered by love, dragged Faust from the clutches of Mephistopheles, holding his immortal soul in their tender grasp, saving him.


End file.
